Intertwined Paths - Chapter 18

[an] Canonical Pemberley still: nothing much is happening at the other Pemberley — yet! [/an]

Chapter 18

17 May 1814

Dr. Marcus Rushmore glowered at the table where he sat, in a semi-private salon adjoining the main taproom of The Black Bull of Lambton. He was conscious of having suffered a grave discomfiture, but was progressively losing the awareness of his own contributions to the débâcle, according as he imbibed another and yet another glass of The Black Bull’s ale, which while not entirely excellent improved the more one partook of it. His uncle (the baronet, not his other uncle the solicitor, of whom the less said the better) had been good friends, since their school days, with Dr. Smithson, the well-known London gynaecologist and obstetrician. Dr. Smithson, despite Marcus’ never having been much more than an adequate student, had, out of consideration for his friend and given that he knew no other in Derbyshire, recommended Marcus when he knew that a family prominent in that county was seeking an accoucheur. It had been a good opportunity to advance his career, for a recommendation from the Darcy family would carry enormous weight in Derbyshire; and Dr. Rushmore had certainly intended to give them satisfaction. However, the stars in their courses had conspired against him.

First there was the girl —Damn the wench!— that had made him late and then had developed abbesses, no, abscesses of course, so that despite driving through the mud and rain to her village, he was obliged to come to Pemberley without the nurse that he had promised. Then there had been that milestone, which had so bounded from its place as to catch his carriage wheel. He had been driving in a perfectly competent manner, feathering the turn just beautifully in fact, when the accident occurred.

“Damn it!” he said aloud.

The well-dressed young man seated at the next table had already been observing Dr. Rushmore closely, and further perked up his ears at this exclamation. Any gentleman who was both angry and in his cups might well be induced to contribute something useful to one’s purposes. It might be money or something readily convertible into the same; such men were often careless with their belongings. Or it might be information, if one should be able to befriend the man at such a vulnerable moment. And the dapper young man knew himself to be quite skilled at extracting either or both of the aforementioned benefits from complete strangers. At the moment his hopes of information were foremost in his mind, for he knew who this angrily inebriated gentleman was. It went without saying, however, that he would not reject an opportunity of attaching the other commodity if such should present itself.

That Mrs. Nadderby! Dr. Rushmore thought with loathing, and “Damn her!” he said. What humiliation he had experienced at her hands! Not only had she preceded him to Pemberley, but she had in fact presided at the all-important birth, and, most gallingly, had brought it about quickly and without complications. There had been no need for him to guide the process and no opportunity for him to demonstrate the superiority of his skills over hers.

And then Mr. Darcy! He had managed to ignore it when the great man had so rudely muttered “Cut line!” But he had heard it, oh, yes, he had heard it —his hearing was in no way deficient. And then, to denigrate him while praising Mrs. Nadderby, to mock his knowledge of Pliny and of … and of whatsisname … of the other great founding father of the art and science of medicine … to rub his nose in the fact that he had not arrived in time and then to dismiss him with the curt statement that they would have no further need of his services … “Damn almighty arrogant Darcy!” he said. He did not see the expression of eager satisfaction that passed briefly over the dapper young gentleman’s face, but he did notice when he came over to sit next to him, carrying a bottle.

“Friend,” said the stranger, “It sounds as if you are facing considerable difficulties. I would gladly share this whiskey, poor as it is, with you, and lend you an ear, should you wish to share your troubles. Here, Nan!” he summoned the barmaid, who was passing by the door at the moment, “Bring another glass for this gentleman, if you please.” She was a pretty young thing, he reflected, Giles’ little sister, young enough not to know any details of his past but old enough to know not to talk about him, and pretty enough that … no, none of that. He did not need to cause himself trouble with the few friends yet remaining to him here in Lambton.

Rushmore was too far gone to respond with adequate politeness to the gentleman’s attentions, although he did mutter “Obliged,” before sinking back into morose contemplation. In truth he did not greatly desire the drink, but he was willing enough to partake of it, given that the other was being so generous with it. When he came to taste it, he sensed again, even through the haze already upon his senses, that this was a drink of far from the highest quality. He also knew, at some level, that he had better not drink very much of it, lest he lose control of himself altogether.

“I was interested to hear you mention the name of a gentleman well-known in these parts,” said his new friend. “Have you had dealings with him in the recent past?”

“To whom do you refer?” Rushmore asked, a trifle suspiciously. He was not so far gone as to have lost all caution; he retained a residual fear of what one of Darcy’s prominence might do to him. But his companion’s next words soothed his fears.

“Why, to Darcy of Pemberley,” said the well-dressed gentleman. “He is accounted a great man, but has been known sometimes to tread, whether carelessly or not, upon us lesser beings.”

“Yes, well. …” Rushmore sank once more into contemplation. The scenes he had recently witnessed at Pemberley played over in his mind once more, slowly because his brain functions were not at their peak, yet strongly because his emotions were. “Yes, he has indeed tread … trod … treaden on me.” He launched into a diatribe, short on specific, not to mention plausible, accusations of mistreatment, yet long on the description of his sufferings as a result of the alleged abuse. Darcy, it seemed, had called him at the worst possible time, had so skimped on the maintenance of his roads that large rocks were hidden in the grass on the roadway itself, lying in wait for unsuspecting vehic … vehicles, so that, if Providence had not sent by a young woman with her child, on their way to Pemberley, the devil alone knew when he would have arrived.

“A child? Perhaps two years old or so? Was the woman a servant at the house?”

“No, she seemed to be a sort of a relative,” Dr. Rushmore answered. “Darcy received her and tol … told her they would find a room for her.”

So, Lydia had evaded him, and successfully made her way into Pemberley. The gentleman’s jaw tightened briefly. It was typical enough of her, and quite understandable: she was but seeking her own comfort. But in the process she had denied him his revenge (or at least postponed it), and left him shut out in the cold while she destroyed what little might be left of his character in the family’s eyes. However, the doctor had now resumed his jeremiad, and his companion returned his attention to him.

Darcy, it seemed, had received him so brusquely as to be almost guilty of insuff … of incivility, had prevented him from providing a full account of the difficulties of his arrival; had held him back from arriving at Mrs. Darcy’s side before the child was born, had entrussed the birth of his heir … or at least, of Mrs. Darcy’s son … to an ingnorant, uneducated, supersish … supersitious old woman, and then had dismissed him (Rushmore) most precipitously, rebuking him for his treatment of the old hag, sending him away from Pemberley and making it clear that he need not expect to return. “Unless Mrs. Darcy were to take a turn for the worse,” he concluded with a sort of vengeful hopefulness, “then they would wish they had retained my services!” His voice died into a mumble. “Chatmore! Chatmore!!” he repeated with disgust. “Of all the discusst … discusting apple … appelat … applications to have applied to one!”

But his companion was interested in something else he had heard. He did take the time to express well-worded (and well-accepted) sentiments of understanding and indeed of sympathy. He finished, saying, “You do seem to have been treated in a rather callous and uncivil manner, a manner quite unworthy of the eminence of your profession, and I congratulate you on bearing up under it so well. Did I rightly hear, however, some degree of doubt as to the status of the child? Surely that would be a great comedown for the ineffable Mr. Darcy.” He made a suggestive gesture bearing a certain resemblance to an animal’s horns, while his countenance expressed such a sense of shared merriment and solidarity between fellow-sufferers that Dr. Rushmore felt almost no compunction, and certainly showed no notable hesitation, in confirming the supposition.

“Indeed … hic … Mr. Darcy himself consis … consis … consantly spoke of the child as ‘the baby’ or as ‘Mrs. Darcy’s son’, Not once, do you hear me, not once did he say ‘my son’. And Miss Darcy, talking to him, only said ‘my nephew’ instead of ‘your son’. But the most damned … the most damneding thing was Mr. Darcy’s brother-in-law. Mr. Bangling, wasn’t it? No, that is not right. Bingling? No, that is not right either …”

He pondered the mystery for a second or two, before his companion helpfully suggested, “Bingley, is it not?”

“Yes, I believe that is it. Yes, I believe that was the name.”

He seemed disposed to further meditation on the matter, but his companion gently prodded his memory. “And what did Mr. Bingley say regarding the child?”

“Oh, yes. He said, and I be …blieve I remember this exactly, … he said ‘Congratulations, Darcy. It is too bad it is not yours.’ He was jug-bitten, you see. And his wife, Mrs. Darcy’s sees … sis… sister, turned on him, and fairly tore into him, told him to hold his tongue, as he was so far in his cups that he did not know what he was saying.”

“In vino veritas,” his companion nodded sagely.

“It is good to meet an educated gennelman like yourself who knows suffish … sufficient Greek to quote the classics to good effec’,” Rushmore returned, quite unconscious of the irony implicit in the circumstances of his own revelations, “one who does not mock those of us who appreesh … appreciate them. You are a fine man, sir. May I have another sip or two of that exlent brandy, jus’ a small amount, to be sure …”

His companion did keep the amount small; he did not want Rushmore to succumb completely to the effects of alcohol before he had revealed all that he knew. But Rushmore had already revealed all that he knew, and after another ten minutes of conversation, during which nothing else of interest was forthcoming, the gentleman concluded that such was the case and left the doctor in peace to rest his head on his arms on the table. He thoughtfully relieved the Doctor of a few coins and a snuff-box before leaving the room, but took only so much money as might not be immediately or incontrovertibly missed. The snuff-box would certainly be missed, but the Doctor would not know for certain when he had lost it.

He ducked out from the parlour, as he had previously entered, through a back door. He knew well his way around the inn, and so avoided going through the taproom; too many people knew him in Lambton. With a slight hitch in his gait, the longest-lasting effect of his contretemps with Sgt. Buncombe (though his ribs still hurt as well), he traversed the quiet streets to the furthest reaches of the town, where lay the house of his old friend and partner-in-misdeeds, Giles Parker. Giles was not quite as friendly as he was used to be, but Wickham (for of course it was he) knew enough unsavoury facts about him that he was persuaded to give him a bed to sleep in for a few days, and to pass useful information to him. In exchange he received a promise of silence regarding the past, and of not involving him in any present mischief. It had been Giles’ sister Nancy who had sent word to her brother that the fancy lady-doctor from Derby had left the Black Bull, headed for Pemberley, and later that he had returned thence in a foul mood, and was in the parlour attempting to drink himself under the table.

Surprisingly to himself, Wickham was rendered more pensive than fully celebratory by the honey-fall that had come his way. Part of his mind was, of course, already concocting a half-dozen different and mutually incompatible schemes for making use of the information, and another part was indeed rubbing its hands with glee. How the mighty were fallen! How delicious that Darcy, of all men, should be cuckolded, and know it, and, if this intelligence was trustworthy, be in a fair way to raise another’s child to inherit Pemberley. But was the information to be trusted? Would proud, almighty Darcy accept a child that was not his own, much less allow it to inherit? It certainly seemed improbable. He had clearly (and naturally enough!) been besotted with that lively Elizabeth Bennet, but such feelings could not be expected to last, and surely they were not still so strong as to induce him to condone a betrayal of such magnitude! And she, would she have done such a thing? Wickham didn’t think so, at least not easily or lightly. She was no Lydia. And yet, there were the words the doctor had heard! They had been enough to convince him, at least. What Darcy and Georgiana had said, or rather not said, might not mean so much, but Bingley’s words: those were telling. And his wife’s anger was almost equally so. Assuming of course that the doctor had not invented that incident—and why would he? Jane Bennet never got angry at anyone, least of all at Bingley—it would take something like blurting out such an appalling secret to set her off. And why would Bingley come up with such a thing, if it were not true? It must be true!

Wickham briefly pondered who the bastard’s father might be, and indulged a wish that it were he himself. How that would increase Darcy’s humiliation! Besides, the thought of Mrs. Darcy …. Yet another part of him, a minor but very central part, a part he tried to stuff away and slam the door on, actually felt a minuscule bit of sympathy for Darcy, and no sooner had it indulged in that feeling than it was overwhelmed with the need to beweep its own humiliation. How she had struck him, right where it most hurt! He forced his mind back to the other issues at hand. Perhaps Darcy had other plans for the child rather than letting him inherit. Wickham certainly would go that route, were he ever in such a situation. And he was, damn it —once again his mind shied away from the sore spot, though it kept circling back around to it, like the tongue fondling and irritating a sore tooth.

He decided on his course of action. He would prepare a letter tomorrow, and then make his way to Pemberley early on the following day, trusting to fortune for the chance to confirm the information, or learn or achieve something else to his advantage, and decide whether to leave the letter at Pemberley or post it later from some other place. Damn! He should have induced the doctor, drunk though he was, to give him a sample of his hand to copy. Perhaps he could achieve that tomorrow. In any case, he was master of several different hands himself and Darcy would not recognize the more recently acquired of them. Nor, or at least so it might be hoped, would he know it from the Doctor’s hand. In any case, why should the letter have to come from the Doctor—would it not be as effective, or more so, if it came anonymously, if it claimed to be a copy of an original from the Doctor? He started putting the phrases together in his mind. It would only need to be a short missive. He would have time to ponder the matter in the morning.