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Chapter Forty-Seven
To Lydia Bennet Wickham, complete and immediate gratification had always been her first and only objective. Her marriage, which she had recognised as a grave error within two months of its occurrence, delivered little of this commodity since its initial heady beginning.
Wickham, being as selfish as she, offered no sympathy and in return received none. In short, they found themselves to be two restless individuals with little chance of happiness so long as they stayed within the company of the other. His commonly-known philandering did not break her heart, but, instead, gave her leave to behave in as willful a manner as he.
Soon after their move to Newcastle, Captain Denny expressed a not so subtle desire to renew his attentions, where after she welcomed his letters of interest without guilt or remorse. Later, he visited often under the pretence of being reunited with his dear friend, Wickham.
It had not taken long for Mrs. Wickham to succumb once again to his charms, and in the process, to conceive the ill-fated Juliet. As though afraid to frighten away her now-enamoured suitor, Lydia did not share this news with Denny, but kept him at a safe distance for the last four months of her confinement. Somehow the thought of motherhood (in her own mind, at least) did not fit with the reality of their passionate and deliciously forbidden affair.
Wickham remained ignorant for a time, supposing the child to be his. His discovery of his wife's infidelity happened, quite by chance, one afternoon when he came upon one of Denny's long and ardent letters. Rather than reacting in the manner of a jealous husband, he had kept this find to himself for several weeks, weighing what advantages might be had by such a turn of events. Alas, he did realise that Denny was as destitute most times as were the Wickhams, themselves; a fact which, unfortunately, omitted blackmail from the equation.
The Darcys, however, were not. What was more, they displayed the rather laughable weakness of desiring to shield their families from scandal; a useful tool which could be implemented again and again, if the need arose.
Thus, on the occasion of visiting Brindlewood, he had approached Darcy with the suggestion that if such disgraces as divorce or abandonment were to be averted, he, Wickham, would have to be generously induced to remain in this hopelessly inconvenient marriage. Somewhat to his surprise, Darcy agreed (he had expected an outraged refusal before that gentleman might be convinced to see reason), and the two separated with even less respect or honourable feeling between them than previously.
As he accepted the money with little compunction to hold up his end of the bargain, Wickham had, predictably, ridden off not six months later, spurred by an invitation from a wealthy young lady who knew nothing of his ignominious past.
Lydia, meanwhile, returned to Longbourn. With shocking relief she deposited her daughter into the care of the servants there, and went about the neighbourhood as though she were still Miss Lydia Bennet; unmarried and thence, unfettered.
Mrs. Bennet, having her favourite at home once more, turned a blind eye to this behaviour, defending her youngest with fierce loyalty against all charges of impropriety. Mr. Bennet began to spend even more time within the calming walls of his study, emerging only for meals or to seek whatever exercise he could. Despising common gossip as he did, he avoided contact with neighbours and even friends, and became, in their eyes, more of an oddity than before.
Following their short and simple wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Chase left immediately for the West Indies; each of them seeking some material reward for the piety and constant avoidance of sin which they practised so vehemently. Although it was not spoken aloud (a joyless effort on Mary's part), they considered the Wickhams to be the worst transgressors of their acquaintance, and therefore believed that they could not quit the company of the unrepentant Lydia too soon.
"I am certain we shall be forgiven," Mr. Chase had confided to his wife, "for not attempting to redeem the soul of your poor sister, but I feel our energies may be put to better use elsewhere."
"I see now that in the case of Lydia," replied Mrs. Chase gravely, "her redemption shall have to be discovered in her own time and means, and as much as it pains me, I fear we cannot compel her to that end."
But weeks of self-indulgence and lack of constructive employment began to take their toll, and Lydia soon found herself quite bored. When Mrs. Bennet happened to mention one evening that the Darcys were enjoying themselves at some seaside residence with no thought nor care of their family's sad situation, she sat up with new interest.
"Where are they exactly?" inquired she as Mr. Bennet peered over his newspaper at the two of them with no little suspicion.
"Oh Lord, I hardly know," replied her mother, momentarily flustered by this unexpected question; "Sheepshead ... no, no Ram ... Ramsgate. Yes, Ramsgate. I am certain that was it."
"And where is that? Is it near to London?"
"If it is, I should not know. Mr. Bennet, do you know of the direction?"
At this point Mr. Bennet arose from his place, carefully folded his paper and answered his wife calmly, "I am certain that I do not, but even if the opposite were the case, I should hesitate to yield such information." Then to his daughter he added, "I would not go about harbouring designs of visiting your sister without an invitation, Lydia. I was led to understand that the family wished to be by themselves alone."
"Oh, posh," was her careless retort, "No one needs to be by themselves alone for so very long. Perhaps I should enjoy some time away as well. After all, have I not been most cruelly abandoned by my husband?"
"Judging by your manner over this past fortnight, I would say that he must have granted you a great favour. You hardly behave as the betrayed wife to me."
"Well, one cannot live in sackcloth forever. Still," she continued thoughtfully, "a change of scenery would do me a world of good. Yes, and Juliet, as well. She might see her cousins again, and they, her ... On the whole I must say, I think it to be a very practical scheme." Already caught up in her plan, she did not hear her father's snort of disgust as he quit the room.
And so it happened. Accommodating Mr. Bennet's only available carriage, Mrs. Wickham, along with her small daughter, soon travelled in the direction of Ramsgate, and, despite popular advice to the contrary, resolved to enjoy herself greatly while in that vicinity.
Two letters arrived for Mr. Darcy on a wet Tuesday in early August. Upon reading them both, he retired into his study; not emerging for the remainder of that day. Becoming deeply concerned, his wife finally steeled herself to knock at the firmly closed door; her suppositions regarding his news as having been most catastrophic, else why would he not have shared it with her immediately?
His appearance, when he answered, succeeded in baffling her further. Although he did look quite serious, no visible torment clouded his features. He even smiled slightly when she expressed her increasing disquiet at his self-exile.
"I must beg your pardon, my love," he apologised at last, "You hardly deserve such neglect, but I am feeling somewhat at a loss, and so have spent these hours reflecting on why this should be."
"I do not understand," she answered, becoming even more confused; "What news did you receive? If it is business I can understand your reticence...Unless, of course, you have found yourself suddenly destitute. In any case, you must know that my feelings shall not be altered. Remember, I did not marry you because of your wealth; rather, in spite of it, I think."
"I appreciate that." He smiled again, glanced at the two papers lying on his desk, then selected one and handed it to her; his eyes studying her face as she began to read.
Mr. Darcy,Inasmuch as this news saddens and pains me, I feel I must inform you of your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh's, sudden demise. Her most unfortunate passing occurred at 7:02 a.m. on Sunday, July the twenty-sixth, without notice nor apparent cause; save for a slight head cold which had continued to plague her over a fortnight or so. Her daughter and heir, Miss Anne de Bourgh is, of course, devastated, but is coping admirably, and, I believe, shall carry on the name of de Bourgh with blameless distinction.
As you are aware, Miss de Bourgh shall inherit the majority of Her Ladyship's fortune, save for one small item which she wished to go to her nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. If you feel this arrangement to be acceptable, Miss de Bourgh has requested to deliver this object to you personally. Lady Catherine had, furthermore, requested in her will that you not be granted prior knowledge of this item until you are actually in possession of it. I hasten to assure you that although this is not an unheard of stipulation, it may be construed as somewhat unusual.
I hope this letter finds you and your family quite well, and might I take this opportunity to state that I always felt myself uneasy when considering your personal differences with Her Ladyship? I know your mother, may she rest in peace, would have been saddened as well. Please accept my most heart-felt felicitations in the sincere hope that the houses of de Bourgh and Darcy may now be reconciled at last. And, I hope as well, sir, that you will consider the firm of Jones and Quade for future consideration in dealing with any legal matters you might encounter.
You may expect the arrival of Miss de Bourgh sometime over the next fortnight. Again, I am in hopes that this news does not cause you extreme suffering, but take comfort in the knowledge that Her Ladyship did consider you benevolently in the end.
Ever at your service,
Edward Quade
Jones and Quade; Attorneys at Law
County of Kent, England, s.
"You need not look so guilt-stricken, Elizabeth," he reproved her as she lay the paper gently back in its place.
Meeting his eyes, she admitted, "I hardly know what to think. For such an inconsequential circumstance as death to fell your aunt seems to be, somehow, absurd."
"Perhaps so, but I think her own enormous pride is what finally destroyed her."
"You are..." she hesitated, "not distressed by this?"
"Disbelieving? Yes. Distressed? by no means. Any affection I might have felt towards her was checked long ago." Then, almost to himself, he continued, "This does not mean I did not respect our connection, but such a connection could not help but be visibly weakened through time; and, in the end, her insufferable meddling must be blamed as a major reason for it."
"You do not fault me for those differences separating you?"
"You?" he appeared surprised by her question, then, offering his hand until she slipped her own into it, he assured her, "My aunt was determined to control my future; a control I refused to accede. If she could not choose my wife, than she would have none for me. I," he smiled as he drew her closer to him, "believed otherwise...I fell in love, Elizabeth. A crime she could not forgive. If I had done the same, as was the expected outcome, with my cousin, Anne, she would have been vindicated. As it was, you see, she found herself quite helpless and the condition of it to be nothing if not intolerable."
"You describe her very well," she complimented him; "Then, you are not harbouring a deeply buried guilt which will manifest itself against me one day in some horrifyingly gruesome manner?"
If a man could laugh without making a sound, Fitzwilliam Darcy very nearly did so at that moment. In the very next, however, he had pulled her tightly against him so that his lips were pressed into her forehead. From this position, she might not have known of the tears he shed, but for the dampness around her hairline.
The realisation did not astonish her. After all, he had lost his aunt, and for all of her foibles, she had been his nearest relation of any authority. Despite her "meddling", she was his mother's sister, and for this, and this alone, she would be missed.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Two days thereafter, they were not surprised to see the figure of Colonel Fitzwilliam riding toward the house. The expected point of his call was introduced almost as soon as he was offered refreshment and seated in the drawing room.
"So," said his cousin, as he settled himself in a chair opposite, "You are here to discuss Lady Catherine's unforeseen passing?"
"Yes, and no," replied the Colonel vaguely; "although I understand that Anne is intending to visit Pembridge very soon."
"As a matter of fact, yes she is. I received a letter from her on the same day as the announcement from her attorney, Mr. Quade. She appears to be bearing up under this sad turn of events quite well."
"Darcy," the Colonel interrupted, glancing at Elizabeth uncertainly, "Might I have a word?"
Elizabeth arose without argument, her mind running over which of several subjects Colonel Fitzwilliam might be desirous to discuss in her absence. However, all she said was, "Of course. I shall see to the children." Then she left them, her curiosity momentarily appeased with the conviction that her husband would surely enlighten her at a later time.
"What is it, Fitzwilliam?" Darcy inquired after watching the Colonel pace restlessly about the room. "You are not mourning the loss of our aunt, after all?"
"It is Miss Covington," was his unhappy reply, "I fear I have erred dreadfully regarding her." Despite his obvious best efforts, his voice faltered under the weight of this confession.
"Erred? How so?"
"She is..." he shook his head as though to awaken from a dream, "I have witnessed it myself, or I should not believe so ill of her ... All along ... all the while that we have kept company, she has been seeing another gentleman as well."
"You have witnessed this? But, where were you at the time? ... If you do not mind my asking." Despite his general distrust of the lady in question, Darcy could not help but sympathise with his friend's present agony.
"Janine's ... a restaurant of which we were both quite fond. I happened to pass it one evening when she had promised she was too busy to see me, yet there she was; seated at a table with a man whose back was to me and so I could not name ... Good heavens, Darcy, how could she do this to me?"
"How can you know if it was not some business acquaintance? ... Perhaps a family friend? Or, do you have reason to presume otherwise?"
"This was not the first occasion." His features worked through several unpleasant emotions before he continued, "She has not been wholly truthful to me in the past, yet I excused it, rationalised it. Great God, I have been a fool!"
"You are not the first, you know." Rising, Darcy strode to the tray bearing the bottle of claret and generously refilled their glasses.
"But you, you did not lose your heart as I have done! She must have seen me for the feckless imbecile that I have, indeed, proven myself to be. I, who have lived long enough to recognise a false woman, yet chose to ignore the signs altogether. Can there be a more ridiculous man than one who believes himself above deception?"
"But what could have been her motive?" Darcy asked, handing the brimming glass over; "What would she possibly have to gain?"
"My downfall apparently," sighed the Colonel as he sank down onto a settee despairingly.
For a moment both fell silent, then Darcy asked quietly, "So, did you speak with her about it? confront her?"
"That was the worst," was his bitter reply, "She attempted to laugh ... to make it seem a trivial thing. I suppose at the sight of my anger, she may have felt some pang of remorse ... Although it will do her little good now. I will not be made a fool again, I promise you."
"Fitzwilliam, you know, of course, you have my deepest sympathy." Unable to think of anything more constructive to say, Darcy fell silent.
After what certainly seemed an endless interlude, the Colonel declared in a voice of quiet anguish; "Do not, under any circumstances, speak her name to me again. This is all I ask. Pretend that I never met her ... never cared for her, and I swear, by all that I am, I shall do the same."
With this, he placed his face into his hands and remained there, uttering no sound, but presenting the picture of a man suffering complete defeat.
The two gentleman remained in the drawing room over the afternoon's interval. Twice, Mr. Darcy rang for more wine, but otherwise, their seclusion was complete. As much as she was tempted, Elizabeth stayed away. Yet, despite all efforts to occupy herself elsewhere, her thoughts insisted on returning to where they were not invited.
The post arriving just before dinner was hailed as a welcomed relief. With unseemly haste, she accepted the two letters from the servant and after noting their direction, sat down to read them at her leisure.
The first was from Mr. Bennet. Be warned, dearest Lizzy, it read. Your youngest sister, Mrs. Wickham, is, as you are reading this, well on her way to Ramsgate. I am very sorry that I could not deter her from her plan, yet there it is. She will do as she wishes and listen not to common sense nor helpful advice. Make of her visit what you will, my dear, and with any luck, it will not be of an overlong duration. Perhaps you might succeed in talking some sense into her. Yet even as I suggest such a prospect, I fear it may be too late, after all.
Elizabeth, sighing at these tidings, could only shake her head as she glanced over the remainder of the letter. Much of it was merely idle gossip of the neighbourhood, and, inevitably she found her eyes returning to its opening.
Lydia, here at Pembridge.
The company of Mrs. Wickham would undoubtedly prove a diversion, but a pleasant one? Probably not. For Lydia, foolish as she was, had to know that the social activity in such a climate was severely limited. She would have done far better in visiting the Bingleys who were currently residing in London for the summer. At least there she might attend a play or two; or perhaps an assembly or ball might be available for her entertainment.
So, why would she choose to come to Ramsgate? Unable to answer such a question, and feeling frustrated because of it, Elizabeth opened the second letter. It was from Georgiana.
My dear family,I am hoping against hope that you will not despise us after you have read this, although I fear that you shall...
Carefully, Elizabeth reread the letter, her mind already absorbed with the unexpected news contained therein. For, not only were they soon to be graced with the presence of Lydia Wickham, now Mr. and Mrs. Berrick, along with his employer, Mr. Nelson, would be calling upon them for no apparent reason other than he (Mr. Nelson) having claimed a strong interest in old abbeys.
"Well, why ever not?" she muttered to herself, "We come here seeking solitude, and instead, find ourselves entertaining all of our friends, relations, and even, I dare say, a few strangers. Who else, I wonder, will arrive? The King, perhaps, or the Prime Minister? How Fitzwilliam will roll his eyes when I tell him of these sudden additions to our family party ... Good heavens!" the thought startled her from her reverie, "How shall I tell him at all?" Somehow, she did not think he would accept such additions without comment; those comments, invariably reflecting a decided lessening of the carefree mood he had enjoyed since arriving at Pembridge.
When she excused herself early from dinner, claiming a slight headache, he soon followed her. At length he discovered her seated in the shade of an ash tree, the two letters, now quite wrinkled from so much rereading, spread open upon her lap. As he approached, she glanced up and met his eyes tellingly.
"You are ungenerous, Mr. Darcy" she reproached him as she folded the letters and tucked them into the pocket of her gown; "You do not allow me an escape when I go to all the trouble to arrange it."
"Escape from what?" he inquired, seating himself beside her; "Myself, perhaps?"
"In a manner of speaking," was her wry reply, "Although I suppose I am attempting to escape my own dilemma rather than you specifically."
"And, to what dilemma are you referring?"
She blew out a long breath of air, then announced, "I fear we shall soon be bidding our peace of mind a fond farewell. We are to expect visitors."
"Oh?" he did not seem surprised by this, and began to pluck blades of grass from between his legs in an idle fashion. "Besides Anne de Bourgh I presume."
"Oh, if she were the only one, but, alas, it is not to be." Deciding at that moment to announce the least objectionable first, she plunged in; "Your sister and Mr. Berrick..."
"That is not so very disagreeable," he suggested, "Providing they do not intend on stopping all summer, of course."
"...And Mr. Nelson. Do you not remember Mr. Berrick's employer? Apparently he holds a fascination for studying the remains of decrepit abbeys."
"It sounds as though he will be mainly occupied away from the house, then...Not so very bad, is it?"
"I am not finished. My sister, Lydia, is coming from Longbourn."
"Wait," he interrupted her, appearing to be confused; "She is arriving with the Berricks?"
"No," she shook her head, "She is arriving on her own, excepting, I am certain, for her poor child. In any case, she has taken it upon herself to travel here without notice nor invitation, and proceed, I have no doubt, in making herself quite at home."
"And, this you could not tell me?" The look he was giving her was part reproof, part amusement.
"I feared you would be made unhappy," she confessed, feeling a bit silly at receiving such a mild response. "After all, we have been so very content since our arrival here. It was nice to believe it might last for a time without outside interference."
His arm slid around her, drawing her close enough to receive his kiss; then he smiled, "My love, although I have cherished every moment spent alone with you, I hardly expected it to go on forever. Our relations would not allow it, you know."
"I do know," was her remonstrance; "Still, I had assumed you would regret the loss of our privacy far more than what you are showing to me now! How am I to take this, Mr. Darcy?"
Considering the position he held at that moment, she, being well within his grasp, should have anticipated his next action; but she did not. Therefore, without immediate comprehension on her part, she found herself lying upon her back; her husband pinning her down so firmly that she could not move her limbs in any direction.
"Mr. Darcy," she scolded him while stifling her laughter, "Release me. This is hardly a dignified situation for either of us."
"No," he agreed, his face just above her own, "it is not. But for the moment we are alone, and I find myself unable to resist taking advantage of that fact."
"You are incorrigible!" Still, she did not turn her head when he began to slowly kiss her; first, the tip of her nose, then, her forehead, and finally, her lips.
When he stopped at last, she met his smile with her own. They might have remained in so inelegant (but so pleasant) a position indefinitely, if he had not chosen to announce at that moment; "Colonel Fitzwilliam will be staying on for a time, as well."
With a sudden burst of strength, she pushed him so that he lay beside her, a view of the ash tree replacing the nearness of his face. Sitting up, she said, "In that case, we are not alone, and I would thank you, Fitzwilliam Darcy, to refrain from humiliating me in public, if you can, at all, help it."
"Somehow, I do not think either the Colonel, the Baroness, nor any one of our household would consider our lovemaking as humiliating." As he spoke, he had propped himself up on one elbow, from where he watched her shrewdly; "However, to please you I shall attempt to restrain myself in 'public' as you call it. Now, my dear Mrs. Darcy, for such a humble and earnest concession, have I not earned some generous reward?"
"Your reward shall be that I will not set you to see to the amusement of my sister while she is here," she replied archly as she stood to brush off her skirts.
"Not what I had in mind, but acceptable just the same," answered he, rising as well, and offering her his arm with a gallant flourish , "Perhaps, we shall have to arrange our own daily escape once we have become overrun with relations. What say you to that, Mrs. Darcy?"
"Perhaps," she concurred, all the while attempting to conceal her smile, but somehow failing completely; "We should."
Chapter Forty-Nine
As it happened, there were five in the carriage from London. Mr. Berrick's sister, Mrs. Paquin, who had been suffering through an extended period of melancholia; was seen by her brother and sister-in-law as requiring some fresh air far and away from the stuffy streets of town.
Thus, she and her daughter, Bernadette, were also to be included in the party; causing the drive to be more crowded, but possibly more interesting as well.
Surprisingly, Mr. Nelson, who prided himself on having very little personal contact with children, saw in the girl a quick mind with a willingness to learn from all those in her company. To a man who loved to exhibit his superior intelligence as frequently as he could, therefore, this was like offering a fish to a particularly vainglorious cat.
They were greeted by the Darcys, the Baroness and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who bowed somewhat awkwardly to Mrs. Paquin. She, in turn, averted her head just a little so that their eyes should not meet directly. Bernadette, however, embraced him with all of the open affection only a ten-year-old can express; immediately forgiving him for his neglect of recent months.
"Oh, Colonel!" she cried happily, "I hoped we would see you again very soon. I have missed our guessing games, and you have never met my new kitten, Lady Cat!"
"Lady Cat?" he repeated, meeting her smile with one of his own, "What an odd name for a kitten."
"She is named after your aunt, of course. I thought it a very good one as she will only be small for a short time, and whenever I speak to her, it shall cause me to think of you."
"You are a very sensible girl," he told her gravely, "And, I thank you for the compliment."
"You are most welcome," she answered, curtseying to his bow; then, as her eyes skimmed over the lawn, she cried, "Oh, but there is the sea! Please, Mr. Darcy, will you not show it to me?"
"Later, Bernadette," interrupted her mother, "Do allow Mr. and Mrs. Darcy to take us indoors. I would not be so thoughtless as to keep them out in this sun any longer than is necessary."
After embracing her brother and Elizabeth, Georgiana turned to Mrs. Paquin; "You must allow me to give you a tour. It is a fascinating building, and I have so many fond memories of being here as a child ... Although," she added, her cheeks colouring slightly, "My last few visits were not quite so carefree. Still, it is as lovely as I remember."
She had glanced at Mr. Berrick as she spoke. Since, however, he was in the midst of introductions between Mr. Nelson and the Darcys, her momentary embarrassment passed unnoticed by him.
"That, I must assume, is the abbey of St Lucius," Mr. Nelson remarked to his host as he gazed beyond the group toward the broken spires standing amid the trees.
"Yes," Darcy replied, "What is left of it. I am afraid there is not much."
"In itself, that is immaterial. I trust you do not mind my traipsing about on my own? I find these old ruins to offer endless edification."
"No, of course not. There are, as a matter of fact," he offered politely, "several volumes in our library describing the history of the abbey, if you are so inclined."
"Yes, thank you," but even as Mr. Nelson replied, they could see that his thoughts were already exploring among the stones in the wood.
Dinner that evening was divided between Mr. Nelson's stories of entertaining court cases with which he had been involved, and his rather direct inquiries into the lives of the others present. He seemed to be interested in every commonplace occurrence; all the while not overly concerned that such applications might be construed as prying.
"And, how did you and your husband become acquainted?" he asked Elizabeth, as he was seated near her end of the table and so within an easy range for conversation.
She looked surprised but answered willingly, "At an assembly actually, although we did not speak together on that particular occasion."
"Oh?"
"No," she glanced at Fitzwilliam as though wondering how much she should divulge to someone who had been a stranger up until a few hours earlier; "Our first impressions were not ... favourable, to say the least."
After studying them each in turn, Mr. Nelson continued, "Not favourable, you say, but why ever not? You are, neither of you unattractive. You seem an amiable, outgoing sort of person, Mrs. Darcy. Yet, perhaps you became shy in meeting so eminent a gentleman."
"Frankly, I had never heard of Mr. Darcy before his coming into Hertfordshire," she disagreed, more amused than offended, "He may have been eminent in town, yet he was an unknown to my family and friends."
"You were impressed later though, I should wager," taking a drink from his wine glass, his eyes did not leave her face while waited for her answer.
"That depends on to how much later you are referring," she said, "I did not grow to think better of him until several months after our first meeting.
"You disliked him, did you? His wealth, his position did not appeal to you?"
"His wealth and position, as you call it, repelled rather than attractive my interest. I was not disposed to like a man simply because of his material standing."
Glancing warmly at her husband, who appeared to be intent on hearing Mr. Berrick's description of some recent play seen by he and Georgiana, she smiled in recollection, "He showed me a far more valuable asset at a time when it was needed most."
"So, you fell in love at last, and are now the happiest couple on earth," the older gentleman's unveiled cynicism caused the words to sound foolish and idealistic.
"We have our moments," was her no-longer-patient reply. Deciding to turn the tables on the inquisitive barrister, she asked suddenly, "And, what of you Mr. Nelson? A confirmed bachelor until...?"
Surprisingly, he laughed. "Until I am debating with St. Gabriel, himself, I hope. All right, Mrs. Darcy, you have made your point. Tell me, how has the weather been in this part of the country?"
Without considering the matter thoroughly, Elizabeth had unwittingly seated Colonel Fitzwilliam beside Mrs. Paquin. Now, as she watched them, she had cause to regret her oversight. Neither the Colonel nor the lady appeared to be much at ease, and although each spoke to the person on their other side, they carefully avoided any interchange between them.
"How could I have been so unthinking?" she scolded herself, "not to have realised that their friendship must have been badly tarnished by his attentions to Miss Covington. Well, I shall just have to rearrange them tomorrow. Perhaps opposite ends would be more appropriate..."
"I should not have come," Lorraine Paquin decided miserably as she toyed with the uneaten food before her. Certainly, she would have remained in town if she had known of the Colonel's presence at Pembridge. Yet, when dear Georgiana suggested her accompanying them, the idea had not even crossed her mind. How simple-minded; how very foolish she must appear. Of course he would be here. He and Mr. Darcy were so close; like brothers, really. Perhaps, he came to announce Miss Covington's acceptance of his proposal. Yes, she had been most painfully aware of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regard shifting from herself to the younger woman; known, but held no notion of just what to do about it.
As a lady, she could not confront him...could not allow him to see her distress. After all, he had never intimated anything beyond friendship between them, and had always behaved the perfect gentleman.
Yet, had she not sensed something more? Surely, there had been times when they were laughing at some nonsense of Bernadette's or sharing a newly discovered poem or play, that she had met his gaze and read something deeper there.
However, as he had never acted upon it, she was compelled to believe he wished to keep their relationship as it was. And, as he was still relatively young, quite well-favoured, and generally unhampered, she knew that he did not consider himself as betraying her when escorting other ladies to social events.
Much as she despised thinking of it, she was aware of his being very nearly completely dependant on his military income. The expectation of friends and relations, therefore, was for him to form an alliance with a woman of some means. Unfortunately, despite her late husband's adequate pension and her brother's continued benevolence, she knew that he should not settle for a woman who could offer little else but love.
For, she did love him, and had for several years. Who would not, after all? she had asked herself time and again. He was everything that a gentleman ought to be, thus it was his right to marry whom he chose.
Still, when he became interested in Miss Covington, and the attentions she had come to depend upon were removed, she had mourned; silently, privately, but no less arduously than if he had actually avowed his love.
Now, seeing him again, she felt her heart breaking anew, and great was her desire to keep this fact from him. It would not do to have her folly discovered. She could not bear his pity, nor anyone else in the party; and so, she imagined herself to be an actress in some tragic play. Her role was basic: to pretend disinterest of his future plans; with whomever they might involve.
A simple scheme indeed, yet, when she came down to dinner and found herself to be seated beside him, she knew that it was doomed to failure.
Her only other recourse was to ignore him, while he, by all outward appearances, did the same. So involved were they in their object that they did not notice the growing attention they were gaining from some of the others in their company.
If Mr. Nelson were better acquainted with either of them, he would not have flinched from challenging their mutual charade, but, having some (albeit a very little) tact, he desisted. Instead, he took satisfaction in sitting back and observing their ill-concealed discomfort, and, after only a moment or two, correctly surmising the reason for it.
As a spectator of human frailty (inevitable in his line of work), he found the actual force of love in its romantic sense to be most impressive. And, the more he had occasion to study it, the more mystifying it became to him.
If he, the intellectually unmatched Rutherford Nelson, could be strongly affected by anything at all, it would have to be a manifestation as vague and difficult to understand as this overpowering attraction which constantly occurred between man and woman.
No, he did not understand it; even so, when such an obvious demonstration of its many misdeeds and misapprehensions were played out before him, he found that he could not look away. It was somewhat like watching a ship sinking; unpleasant, calamitous, in fact, yet there was something mesmerising about its slow, steady descent into the depths of the very ocean which had so recently supported it.
Mr. Darcy, flanked by Mr. and Mrs. Berrick, was required to make only an occasional response to their comments, and so had leisure to note the growing discomfort between his cousin and Mrs. Paquin as well. As he had been unaware of how strong their mutual regard might have been, it came as something of a surprise to see the embarrassment now affecting them both.
Instinctively, his eyes met his wife's and although the distance was too great for speech, she managed to convey her own concern in a matter of seconds with just a nod of her head, followed by an inquisitive raising of her eyebrows.
This, then, was his cue to declare the meal finished. With a suggestion that the gentlemen might enjoy a leisurely brandy in the billiard room, he moved to accompany them out. However, a light touch on his sleeve caused him to turn to see Elizabeth standing beside him.
"You must speak with Colonel Fitzwilliam," she whispered, her voice sounding determined.
"Speak to him of what? Not of what was going on at dinner, I hope," he returned incredulously.
"I will not have my guests unhappy, Fitzwilliam. He and Mrs. Paquin are going to have to come to an understanding."
"And, what am I to do about it? They are both adults. Surely, you do not expect me to interfere."
"Fitzwilliam," she began, then in a more persuasive tone, entreated, "At the very least, convince him that he must talk to her...clear the air between them. No one deserves to be so uneasy, so despondent as they both were on this evening. Please, my love." Much as she normally abhorred such shameless behaviour, she gazed imploringly at him until he finally conceded.
"All right, I shall offer my advice on the matter, but if he does not act upon it, I can do no more."
"That is all I ask," she smiled in encouragement as she kissed his cheek, "And I thank you, my love."
"Thank me later," he muttered as he left her, "For I will expect compensation."
Chapter Fifty
Mr. Darcy did not speak privately to Colonel Fitzwilliam that evening. Somehow, the opportunity failed to arise, what with Mr. Berrick and Mr. Nelson being always present as well. As a result, when they finally rejoined the ladies, he would only glower at Mrs. Darcy as though to accuse her of being the cause of his current frustration.
Recognising the volatile nature of his mood, she teased him by playing several of his favourite pieces on the piano-forte before giving the instrument up to Georgiana. As Mrs. Berrick took her place and proceeded in choosing her music, Elizabeth moved to sit beside her husband on the settee.
"Are you quite vexed with me?" she asked in a low voice near his shoulder. When he did not answer, she slid her arm through his and smiled winningly. "You make me wonder if I should even ask..."
"No," he interrupted gruffly, "I have not spoken to him. You seem to forget, Elizabeth, I must attend to my other guests, as well."
"Yes, Mr. Darcy, I agree that you must. Yet, can you bear to see two of our dearest friends so unhappy?"
"And, how is my interference, yet again, going to right whatever situation they have got themselves into? I hardly think it is my place, and I do not understand what you hope to accomplish by it."
"Fitzwilliam, my love, you told me that the Colonel has been in despair since his arrival. Well, perhaps he simply needs to renew his attentions to Mrs. Paquin in order to raise his spirits. After all, they were fond of each other once; why should they not be so again?"
By now, he had turned to stare at her in disbelief, "Do I understand you? You wish me to play matchmaker? Preposterous! I shall not."
"If not," she returned, "then you shall force me to do so. Mrs. Paquin obviously harbours deep feelings for Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I believe he will return them, given any encouragement whatsoever."
"Elizabeth, do not involve yourself in matters which do not concern you."
"But they do concern me, and that is the point," she argued; then, in a tone of compromise; "Fitzwilliam, if I am mistaken...If over the next few days I do not witness any evidence of regard on their part, I shall abandon the cause. But if I do..."
"If you do ... ?" he repeated warily.
"Then, I shall simply give it a helpful nudge in the right direction."
Her resolve to ease her guests' current unhappiness was temporarily postponed the following morning with the arrival of Lydia. Watching her emerge from the carriage (accepting the unneeded assistance of no less than three footmen), Elizabeth was compelled to concede that her youngest sister claimed a certain adroitness regarding the opposite sex which, when it was not blatantly improper, could be somewhat disarming.
"Mr. Nelson," Lydia smiled sweetly as, upon their introduction she offered her hand, "I have heard of your clever deeds. I do hope you shall go easy with me, for I have not half the wit of my dear sister, Mrs. Darcy."
"Mrs. Wickham," he returned with a bow, "I am certain you are as resourceful as you are beautiful. I feel no need to test that which I may clearly witness."
"Then," replied she, with a gay toss of her curls for added effect, "I hope you are to be seated beside me at dinner. I predict us to be great friends." At last turning her attention from the gentlemen of the party, she cried, "Do forgive me, Lizzy, I intended to come here directly, but, as we were so near to town, decided to stop to see Jane and all of her dear children."
"Oh?" replied Elizabeth, her expression sceptical, "And, how was she, pray?"
"As well as she always is, or so she let on...I believe, however," she added, lowering her voice as though imparting some great secret, "she must have been only recently quite ill, although she would confess nothing of it to me. Why, she is as thin as a post! Would you not think Mr. Bingley might see to her health far better than what he apparently is?"
"Lydia," interrupted her sister, aware of the growing disquiet in Fitzwilliam's countenance, "How did you leave our father and mother?"
"Oh, they are fine, of course. You missed Mary's wedding, but, I must tell you, it was not much. That Mr. Chase is too dour for my liking. How Mary can bear to..."
"And, how is Juliet?" Elizabeth tried again, her eyes lighting on the slumbering child now being conveyed from the coach by a young servant girl.
"Oh," Lydia answered with little interest, "She is as all children tend to be: fussing or sleeping much of the time. Perhaps meeting your children again shall serve as a diversion, and make her more amiable."
"Perhaps," Elizabeth agreed, frowning. Lydia, it appeared had changed very little. As the company re-entered the house, she stood staring after her sister glumly. "I only hope," she intoned for the benefit of her waiting husband, "we survive this visit...All of us."
He returned her look of frustration with one of surprising humour; "In all likelihood, I doubt very much of your seeing much of her while she is here. I believe your sister perfectly capable of entertaining herself."
"Yes," agreed his wife with a long-suffering sigh, "This is exactly what concerns me."
Mr. Nelson, that very evening, broached the question Elizabeth had dreaded, but which did not seem to concern Lydia in the least.
"Pray, Mrs. Wickham," he inquired, once they had been served their wine and dessert n the music room, "Where is Mr. Wickham?"
"Oh," said she in a manner of complete indifference, "I hardly know. He comes and goes as he pleases."
"Interesting," her listener observed aloud, "You must enjoy one of these new, modern marriages, then; where each chooses to follow his, or her own separate interests? You do not mind such an arrangement?"
"Why, sir," she returned with an impish smile, "I encourage it."
The others in the room either looked a bit shocked (as was Mrs. Paquin and Mrs. Berrick), somewhat amused (Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Nelson, Mr. Berrick and even the Baroness), stoically impassive (Mr. Darcy), or intensely mortified (Mrs. Darcy).
"Without envy nor resentment between you?" continued Mr. Nelson, paying no attention to the quick movement of his hostess toward the piano-forte, where she promptly sat and began to play a Bach fugue purely from memory, as well as increasing desperation.
This attempt at distraction, however, did not check Lydia for long. "Oh, no," she replied cheerfully, "We have, I suppose, an unspoken agreement in that regard. Truly, we get on quite well with as little direct contact as possible."
"But," cried Mrs. Paquin, who could no longer remain silent, "What of your daughter? Does she not miss her father?"
"She is too young to be very much troubled," Lydia answered after glancing at Mrs. Paquin with little concern; "And, why should she? For he has not cared two straws about her."
At this, Mrs. Paquin arose, her cheeks quite flushed, and with a murmured "Pray, please, excuse me," hastily quit the room. Georgiana looked after her as though wishing she had the nerve to follow such an example, but after a glance at her evidently unconcerned husband, resigned herself to remain where she was.
Mr. Nelson, meanwhile, was eyeing Lydia with growing interest, "A woman without a tendency toward jealousy, pettiness or ambition? Amazing! Extraordinary! And to think, I had to leave London to discover such a specimen!"
Apparently uncertain whether to be offended or appreciative, Lydia only smiled once more, saying, "I do not believe marriages such as my own are so very unusual. Why, several of my dearest acquaintances share my views most wholeheartedly, and are not ashamed in the least to profess them in company."
"But such a marriage," the Baroness protested mildly, her eyebrows aloft, "can hold little affection. Surely you would not recommend such a situation."
"This brings us to an interesting point," declared Mr. Nelson before Lydia could respond, "Is affection in marriage truly a necessity, or might it be dispensed with altogether?"
"It depends entirely," put in Elizabeth, "With what, if any, expectations you are entering into the union." Rising from the now silent piano-forte, she turned to face them, her countenance reflecting her disdain. "Yet, if it is only to form a somewhat amiable partnership, why attempt the business at all. Instead, remain on civil, if unattached terms. Do not allow inessential emotions to cloud one's judgement, but resolve to avoid the nuptial contract in a manner both rational and efficient. In this way, any later resentment might be avoided entirely; thus, leaving each party free to do as they wish when they have wearied of the other's company. For such an end, I am convinced, must be inevitable."
"And, why is that?" inquired Mr. Nelson, as he studied Mrs. Darcy shrewdly; "Cannot a man and woman remain in such an association indefinitely without complicated entanglements between them?"
"Come, Mr. Nelson," she reproved him, "Even two gentlemen must share some common bond when forming a business partnership; a sense of trust...of loyalty, if nothing else."
"Yes, of course," this from Colonel Fitzwilliam, whose eyes had followed Mrs. Paquin's hasty exit, and who now stood in preparation of doing the same. "A marriage could hardly survive where there exists less of these virtues than even a business partnership. However, as I can claim little personal knowledge, I shall excuse myself from further debate." With this, he bowed to the ladies and strode from the room, his expression unreadable.
"Spoken like a true gentleman," Mr. Nelson conceded, aware of the growing restlessness about him, and having sense enough to know when to call a truce. "What say you, lovely ladies?" he urged, "Are we not to be graced by further exhibitions of talent? Surely, you would not deprive me, a lonely bachelor, of such delightful and rarely enjoyed entertainment."
As Elizabeth yet appeared vexed, Georgiana discomfited, and Lydia limited by a lack of talent in that area, the Baroness took her place at the piano-forte and began to play; the others soon succumbing to the calming influence of the airs performed so masterfully thereto.
Mrs. Paquin, far too upset to retreat to her room, wandered outdoors to where the lawn met the sand, and stood staring unhappily at the waves lapping upon the shoreline. "I should leave," she brooded silently for the hundredth time since her arrival. "I do not belong here. Yet at this moment I cannot think where I do belong."
For some time she tarried thus, her thoughts so convoluted that only her own carefully nurtured presence of mind kept her from crying out upon hearing a gentleman's voice very near.
"I hope," Colonel Fitzwilliam spoke easily (for it was he); "You are not fretting over Mrs. Wickham's somewhat hasty and thoughtless words. I, myself, am assuming she only said them for effect." Then; "I must beg your pardon, I would not disturb your reflection. If you wish for my absence, I shall leave immediately."
As she was in the process of regaining her composure, she did not answer at once. This, however, did not deter her companion.
"Madam," he continued, his voice sounding determined, "I feel I owe you a rather substantial apology."
When she was able to reply calmly, she murmured, "I cannot understand why you should feel the need for such a declaration, Colonel. You owe me nothing."
He fell silent, but she did not sense his leaving. Finally, he spoke again; "Mrs. Paquin,...Lorraine, I value our friendship too dearly to see it end for no reason whatsoever."
"You harboured no such scruples six weeks ago," she replied, her eyes fixed on the sea. "Why approach me now?" And then, although she despised herself for her weakness, adding, "Is not Miss Covington sufficient company?"
"I ... You have not heard then? Miss Covington and I are no longer seeing one another. She, unfortunately, proved herself to be less than honourable."
"Unfortunately..." Mrs. Paquin repeated as though doubting his admission. After a long moment, she asked, "And now you seek me out as a sort of ... replacement? You must solicit, out of habit I presume, a woman's society; so I shall have to do?" She welcomed the somewhat dubious pleasure of noting confusion ( and perhaps pain?) in his voice when next he spoke.
"No, no, you misunderstand. Her false nature compelled me to appreciate the integrity of your own."
"And what of your nature?" As she said this, she turned to face him, but the darkness shielded his eyes from her scrutiny. Still she continued, fearful that if she paused, her courage might abandon her completely; "Should I value the companionship of a man who calls upon me only at his own selfish whim? Who does not consider how I might be feeling while he is escorting an assortment of affluent ladies to assemblies and plays? Who cares not what damage he might inflict onto the sensibilities of an innocent child?" Suddenly she could repress her tears no longer; "My God, do you not realise how Bernadette has missed you? You have broken her heart, Richard, and I will not have it! Must she suffer the loss of her father all over again?"
Reaching the end of her outburst, she became aware that he had fallen into a bewildered silence, and as her words replayed themselves inside her head, she blushed with a deep and unbearable humiliation. Unwilling to face him for one second more, she felt the urgent desire to retreat, but his hand reached out in an attempt to stay her flight.
"Lorraine, wait!"
"No," she breathed rather than spoke the word, and in a final, surprising burst of strength tore her arm from his grasp. Without a glance back, she fled toward the house, her heart beating so loudly that she could hear nothing else above it.
He did not follow her; a fact for which she was thankful. Unable to imagine meeting his eyes again after such a mortifying confession, neither could she bear the thought of facing his pity. Not slowing her distraught progress until her bedchamber was attained at last, she bolted the door firmly behind her. Then, with a grand hopelessness, collapsed upon the bed awash in anguished sobs.
Chapter Fifty-One
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, although a man blessed with limited personal property, and therefore more likely to, over time, become irresponsible, was not. No, he was not. He felt himself to be nearly as duty-bound as his cousin, Darcy, or his elder brother, the esteemed Earl. Having been ingrained with the idea that family was nearly everything; second only to honour and fortitude, he strove to please those persons whose opinions he valued.
At Cambridge he, while not exactly excelling in his studies, had shown himself to be a dependable and insightful young man. When his father set him up in the militia, he had not balked, but had risen through the ranks with amazing alacrity. Over the years he remained loyal to all of his family's wishes; accepting with good grace the decree that if he married, it must be an alliance of no small fortune.
Because of his easy manners and favourable mien, women were instinctively attracted to him; a circumstance he appreciated but was careful never to take advantage of. The truth of the matter was that he enjoyed his life as it was. He was in no hurry to alter his lifestyle, and even at one and thirty years, felt little pressure to "tie the knot". At the same time he presumed that someday he would do so, but as it was unlikely to be a marriage of deep affection, any sense of immediacy escaped him.
Being of a friendly and open disposition, he never wanted for female companionship, and, inevitably, there had been occasions where he imagined himself in love. One of these, in fact, involved Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Yet, when Darcy announced their engagement, his countenance displaying as much joy as ever was witnessed, he could not resent it. Surely, if anyone deserved happiness, it was Darcy. Thrust into the role of master of Pemberley at the tender age of two and twenty, his many responsibilities had already overcome much of his natural humour, leaving him withdrawn and moody; when, by rights, he ought not to be so.
And so, in the end, he did not envy his cousin. Let Darcy luxuriate in his love-match. If (perhaps when he was forty or so), he, Richard Henry Fitzwilliam, should find a respectable lady of substantial means, then he would marry.
All of this practicality was forgotten when he was reintroduced to Miss Kathleen Covington in London; she of the golden curls and eyes as blue as the sea. The sound of her laughter entranced him; reminding him of bubbles billowing up from beneath a wave. When she spoke, that laughter was always just behind her words, and her eyes would shine from repressed merriment.
Being the youngest of four siblings, and forthright enough to inform him (indirectly, of course) that her inheritance promised little, he should have kept their acquaintance on platonic terms only. Yet, by then he found himself to be helpless to those feelings already controlling his every waking moment.
When she proved herself to be false; when his heart, it seemed, had died a thousand deaths, he saw himself as she must have; a foolish second son yearning for the luxury of loving whomever he wished. Fleeing to Pembridge, then, had been certain necessity. He felt the need to escape from the spell cast upon him, and he knew that if he remained in town, he would unwittingly seek her out.
But, how does one simply stop caring? How are the bonds of love to be uprooted and dispersed once and for all? Confiding in his cousin had definitely helped, yet, it was not enough. He wished, longed for the ear of Mrs. Paquin to sympathise as on countless occasions in the past; to listen to his woes and offer her gentle wisdom. She had once suffered as he was now. Who better to understand?
He had not been prepared to see her at Pembridge, and somehow, upon their reunion, the old familiarity between them appeared to have vanished. Instead, the whole situation felt awkward, uneasy; a circumstance which took him by complete surprise. Where once she would have greeted him warmly, now she turned from him in cold indifference, as though he had committed some crime against her.
Her tirade this evening had also stupefied him, and long remaining where she had left him, he puzzled over her words until they threatened to be imprinted on his brain. What did she mean? How had he damaged the sensibilities of Bernadette? He certainly had not intended to harm anyone, particularly that dear child, for whom he harboured an almost paternal affection. Surely, they had suffered no sense of exclusion by his absence, as Mrs. Paquin, despite the short amount of time of residency in London (not quite one year, in fact), enjoyed many social acquaintances.
Slowly, very slowly, he walked back to the house, his mind still deeply engaged with the problem at hand. A tiny, yet nagging notion was beginning to grow within his consciousness. Could she be imagining herself in love with him? No, no, ridiculous thought. He dismissed it impatiently only to have it reappear as though determined to be acknowledged.
His own lack of vanity rejected the very idea. But why else would she have said such things? Why had she sounded for all the world like an abandoned lover? If she believed herself wronged, was he, then, at fault? Had he behaved in such a way that she might have misconstrued his attentions?
"There is nothing for it," he decided aloud, "I shall have to importune her once more ... to straighten out this misunderstanding. But ... I must be mistaken, that is all. She is not in love with me, just as I am not with her." Pausing, he considered this last for a moment, then shaking his head as he resumed walking, muttered, "nor am I."
A light rain began to fall during the night; its gentle tapping upon window and roof no disturbance to those who slept without care. To some, however, it became a soft aria to accompany whatever discontent might deny them rest.
The arrival of Miss Anne de Bourgh on the following soggy morning was greeted with, not only sympathy and solace by the Darcys and company, but with no little astonishment as well; for, assisting her from the carriage was none other than Dr. Franz Brecht.
In answer to the unspoken inquiry evident on all of their faces, he explained self-consciously, "Having been afforded such an intriguing impression of Rosings, I decided to finally see the place for myself. Imagine my dismay when I discovered Lady Catherine's untimely demise only a day before my arrival."
"And for such happy coincidence," Anne defended him quietly, "I am most grateful. I believe I only survived that dreadful time through the unqualified consolation offered to me by Dr Brecht."
"Once again, you underestimate your own strength of character," he reproved her in a voice so low that only those nearest to them heard it.
No sooner had they entered the house then the party was divided; Miss de Bourgh claiming the attention of her two male cousins, while Dr. Brecht drew his sister into a small salon, his expression conveying the urgency of his report.
"I was followed to Rosings," were his first words as soon as the door was closed behind them.
"By my husband?" she cried, her voice trembling despite her attempt to steady it.
"One of his agents, I believe. That is why I went to Kent first and not directly here." While he spoke he moved to each window in turn and stared out warily.
"You suppose him to have followed you here as well?"
"As of now, I have no reason to do so. I was very careful, I assure you. Still, it will not take him long to track me down."
"Oh, Franz," she sighed, "What must I do? I dare not put the Darcys in any further danger. They have been most gracious in every way, and I fear I have trespassed upon their generosity far too long as it is."
"I beg you," he turned to face her, the seriousness of his tone etched in his features, "I urge you as strongly as I possibly can, Helena; do not leave this place. You are as safe here as anywhere. The Baron will keep his distance so long as you are under the protection of Darcy. His agents are experts at finding that which does not wish to be found, and it is only a matter of time before you are discovered."
"For how long?" was her helpless reply, "It is all very easy for you. You are not in fear for your very life. As it is, I am terrified day and night that he will suddenly appear...Yet, even now it is more than simple terror. I find myself outraged that he holds such power over me, and over all whom I hold dear." Unconsciously, her hand stole across her stomach; a movement not unnoticed by her brother.
His expression softened as he answered, "I shall allow him no access to you, Helena. I promise you that. All I ask is that you remain with the Darcys until I can find some alternate refuge. Although, at this point, I can think of no other more secure."
This last was said so quietly that she suspected him of not intending her to overhear.
They each fell silent, until at length she spoke up hopefully, "But, perhaps he has received my letter...Yes, perhaps reading it shall appease him somewhat."
"You wrote to him?" he appeared surprised by this announcement, "What did you tell him, might I ask, which would succeed in appeasing him?"
She arose, unaccountably made nervous at his unconcealed astonishment. "I said that I shall seek no redress for his past cruelty...That I will not contest a divorce, but would accept his terms, whatever they may be, quietly and with as little public attention as possible."
"Yet, supposing," he suggested after a long moment, "He desires sole custody of his child?"
"If such is the case," she replied, lifting her chin as though she were facing her husband now, "he shall be gravely disappointed."
"Your journey was easy, I trust?" inquired Colonel Fitzwilliam politely as Anne seated herself near the fire.
"Yes, thank you," she answered while removing two packets from a rather large reticule; then, "These were left by my mother to be delivered to each of you as expeditiously as could be arranged." Holding them out to the two gentlemen before her, she looked to be gratified to have this task completed at last. "I do not know what they contain, as she did not feel the need to share such information with me. I suppose she hardly expected the occasion to arise so soon."
Darcy, studying her, accepted his without comment. She has changed, he noted. This young woman, who, while in his presence at least, frequently refused to speak more than two words together over the course of her twenty-odd years, now appeared confident, serene, and something more ... relieved, perhaps? relieved to be away from the overbearing character of her mother? Well, who would not be? "I am glad of it," he decided to himself, "she deserves some happiness after all. No one should be subdued for so very long."
Glancing at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was, no doubt, entertaining the same revelations, he broke the seal and unfolded the thick sheaf of papers given him.
As he read silently, his countenance betrayed a study of varying emotions: disbelief, confusion, anger, pain, and finally, bitter amusement. Aware, at length, of the attention of his company, he arose, bowed to them both, and said, "I must beg your pardon. My aunt has, it seems, enjoyed the last word once again." With this, he left them, papers in hand; all the while offering no further explanation for such enigmatic behaviour.
"Now I am truly reluctant to open mine," remarked Colonel Fitzwilliam with forced cheer, "If Darcy can be affected in such a way, I dread to think what awaits me."
Anne sighed, ignoring his attempt at humour, "I was afraid it would be bad. Mother wasted much of her health on thoughts of vengeance. I only hope he does not blame me."
"I am certain he will not," was his assurance, "You are not your mother."
"No," she smiled weakly, "Nor do I intend to be." Noticing that he had made no progress in the opening of his own packet, she urged him; "Come, my dear cousin. You need not hesitate. Mother actually approved of you."
His reaction, when reading the news contained therein, might be described as being directly opposite of his so recently departed friend. With much surprise and no little delight he declared, "You will not guess! She has left me several properties in and about London! To do with as I please!" Standing ecstatically, he reread the letter, then, recalling his audience, he retracted his joy somewhat, "But, Anne, this is not to be taken from your own inheritance? Surely, she would not do that!"
"Do not trouble yourself," she promised him, this time smiling in earnest, "I have more than enough to lead a most comfortable, and if I so desire, an independent life. If my mother saw fit to treat you so benevolently, she had her reasons."
"This is amazing!" he continued, paying little further attention to her words, "I could not have foreseen such an outcome! Was she quite well, do you think, when she decided this?"
"If by well, you mean sane," Anne answered, nearly laughing aloud herself in the presence of such open and unbridled happiness, "then, I must say that not one of her attorneys would have dared to question her sanity, despite whatever misgivings they might have harboured at the time."
"I might become independent as well," he murmured in a low voice, "I should no longer have to rely upon others for my livelihood. But, am I to be allowed such liberty at last? This must be dream, for have I not imagined it a thousand times over?"
"It is no dream," she interrupted him as she rose from her place. "And, I can think of no one who better deserves such liberty, dear cousin. Perhaps, you shall find doors opened to you which were not, before this."
"Yes..." he agreed; yet so deep in thought did he remain that he did not hear her quiet exit a few moments later.
Chapter Fifty-Two
With the guest count now at eleven (including young Bernadette and the even younger Juliet), Mrs. Darcy felt her household to be somewhat crowded; or at least far more so than what she had previously envisioned for that summer. On her way out of doors to rid herself of such unsettling perceptions, she passed her husband's study, and seeing him seated therein, moved to invite him to join her. When he turned to her, however, she forgot her request at once.
"Oh, what is it?" she exclaimed, for his face appeared drawn and pale. "Are you unwell?"
After clearing his throat several times, he answered with forced lightness, "Nothing so easy, I am afraid."
"Fitzwilliam," in an instant she was beside him, "Tell me what has upset you."
For a moment he did not answer, the patter of the rain restarting against the windows the only sound in the room.
His eyes slid to one of these and stared unseeingly at the drops running down its glossy surface. Finally, in a troubled voice he stated, "I have never regretted our union, Elizabeth."
Startled by this, she knelt beside him, taking his hands up between her own. "My love," she asked again, "Will you not tell me what has happened?"
Gesturing towards his desktop, he answered vaguely, "My aunt felt the need to leave me a small legac y... so kind of her, I think."
Looking to where he had indicated, she saw the packet lying open, its top sheet covered by the handwriting of Lady Catherine, herself.
Mr. Darcy, it began,
While sorting through past correspondence, I happened upon these letters regarding yourself and from my sister, Lady Anne Darcy. I thought it time you saw for yourself her desires and wishes as I have so attested these many years. Perhaps now that your choice has been made, you might pause and suffer some regret for it. I may only hope so. You know my own feelings on the matter in any case...
It continued on in this vein for the remainder of the page, the disdain of its author apparent in every line, but Elizabeth only skimmed the rest briefly. With a hand that would shake, she turned to the page directly beneath it. A new handwriting greeted her; unfamiliar yet fine and even.
My dear sister,...almost instinctively, Elizabeth glanced downwards to the signature. Her eyes assured her that it was, indeed, from his mother; from Fitzwilliam's mother ... and the date? September 28, 1786. Only a week after his birth. Drawing a chair near to where her husband still sat silently, she continued to read, all the while dreading the disclosure promised within it.
How I have waited for this. To present my husband with an heir is more than satisfying, but especially so, in knowing the enviable lineage he has been granted. Could any child be so blessed? Fitzwilliam James Darcy. What a fine weight it carries, to be sure. Now it is your turn, Catherine. If I can bear such discomfort for so many months, you really ought to do the same. Does not Sir Lewis desire an heir himself? Surely after two years of marriage, you do owe him as much. Or, if you should happen to bear a daughter, perhaps my son might marry her someday. Would that not be the most appropriate outcome? Our houses to be joined for all time. Ah, such dreams. But really, their completion shall be up to you, my dear. I have done my part. Oh, here is Maria to do my hair, so I must close. Take care, and see if you might not see to what I have suggested.Regards,
Mrs. James Alexander Darcy
Although the tone of the letter was light and even somewhat playful, its message was anything except. In a voice as heavy as her heart, Elizabeth inquired, "There are more like this?"
"Twenty or so altogether," was his answer. "You may read them, if you like."
Reluctantly, she chose the second of the pile; dated five years later. Glancing over its contents quickly, she discovered the passage pertaining to the same theme.
While my son is growing in every way (he is already quite fluent in speaking basic French and can recollect Roman history better than I do, myself), I still await news from you. Have I a niece or a nephew to embrace into the family? Is it a son to whom my own may seek an equal and lifelong fellowship, or a daughter, who should someday be mistress of all I now look upon with such pride? Do not depend on these slow posts, but send me information by messenger, so that I may know as soon as possible.
"But Anne is only..." protested Elizabeth, attempting to reconcile the dates with her own knowledge.
"Apparently, this child did not live," he answered; then, impassively, "It is the first I had heard of it."
The next letter, dated January 12, 1795, spoke only briefly of this loss, its tone more inclined to focus on the present.
...I am very glad to hear that I am an aunt at last. Anne Felicia Fitzwilliam de Bourgh. How well it sounds. Is Sir Lewis content? Recollect to him, if you must, that even though she is not a true, rightful heir, these insignificant problems can be prearranged in a most satisfactory manner these days. And, who knows, perhaps she shall yet have a brother to take care of such matters.Might I remind you now of our previous conversations? Do you not think it a grand scheme to have the heir of Pemberley united with the daughter of de Bourgh? Oh, I can think of nothing else. If you approached Sir Lewis with such a proposition, would he be pleased? But, of course, how could he not? And, if he is less than ecstatic to have fathered a female, perhaps he might be appeased by the possibility of such a prudent and suitable future laid out for her...
"This is discomfort, indeed," admitted Elizabeth, looking away from the printed words before her, yet unwilling to meet her husband's eyes. "I know you admired your mother greatly, and to have such evidence of her ambition thwarted..."
"Elizabeth," he interrupted, his voice weary, "Do not fall into my aunt's trap ... Do not grant her the satisfaction of it."
She fell silent, her eyes drawn to the rain now falling steadily beyond the windows. She had no idea what to say; how to comfort him. What must he be feeling? Was he regretting having her as his wife? But, no, he had said at the outset that he did not. Then, what? Finally, her voice low, she entreated, "You must tell me your thoughts, Fitzwilliam, for I cannot read them."
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he did so. Taking her now ice-cold hands within his, he kissed each of them once, then with a sigh, began; "My only love," his words, although quietly spoken, were not unsteady, "Each day I awaken and thank God for you. There are no letters written to change my mind about that. My mother ... my mother did not know you. If she had been so graced, she would have admired you as I have. Your spirit, your intelligence, your humour, your resolve ... these she would have recognised and appreciated. Beyond that, she was from another world. If she hoped for my alliance with her niece, it was only because she knew nothing else. Her own was an arranged marriage, you know." He held her gaze as he stated this; as though such an announcement would halt any uncertainty she might be undergoing.
For answer, she shook her head slightly. It was a surprise, but not entirely an unexpected one.
"My father informed me when I was but sixteen ... a year after Mother's death. I am certain he said it with the expectation that I should follow their example. I knew he was referring to Anne even then. And, perhaps, for some time, I agreed with the idea. Yet, when I was in her company, we had nothing to say to one another. She was always ill, and I, impatient. By the time I was eighteen, I was convinced that it would never do. All the while, I rejected the notion of marrying for love alone. I suppose it was ingrained in my consciousness that people like us...that is, people of connection and consequence do not fall in love; or, at least, do not wed because of it."
"Yet, you allowed yourself to fall in love ... twice as I recall, long before we were introduced," she reminded him.
A half-smile flashed across his features before he replied, "Each time, you see, they were as I.; from so-called good families ... good heritage ... all the proper relations. I only met them because they travelled in my own carefully regulated circle. By the time each affair had ended, yes, I suffered; or, imagined myself as such. I must admit, however, I did not do so overlong. Always I would return to Pemberley and listen to my father encourage the renewal of my attentions to my cousin. In fact, only six months before coming to Hertfordshire with Bingley, I was considering the deed as seriously as I ever had."
Now she did look surprised, and admonished him but mildly, "This, you have never told me."
"There was no reason to do so." As he studied their entwined fingers, his expression softened; "From the time you set me down so soundly at Lucas Lodge I was a lost man. I did not know it yet. I believed myself to be in control of my own sensibilities, but from that moment on there was no retreat and no refuge. How could I contemplate marrying Anne de Bourgh; living a life as bland and predictable as that promised, after knowing you?"
"And, you could not share such insight with Lady Catherine?"
"Outside of the fact that I thought it none of her business, I was also wrestling with my own common sense."
"Ah yes, I remember," she smiled; "Against your better judgement and even your character' I believe you said."
"I am sorry you remember it so well. In any case, twenty-seven years of being indoctrinated into such tenets do not suddenly reverse themselves overnight. It was only after your refusal that I realised marriage is far more than the uniting of two like families; the preservation of the status quo. When we met again at Pemberley I vowed that I would earn your respect. I believe at that point I was thinking no further than that. To have your regard bestowed upon me after that shameful proposal was more than I deserved. The desires of my relations did not even enter into the equation by then."
"I am most grateful for such a vow," she stated, as he paused to kiss her hands once more, "For although I was thinking better of you after I read your letter in Kent, I had no inkling of what was to come later."
"I have already told you how Lady Catherine's outrage encouraged me to propose to you a second time. I did not, however, tell you that I spoke to Anne soon after you accepted me."
"No," she agreed with some amusement, "You did not."
"I simply informed her that I was betrothed to another ...That I hoped, if she had counted on our eventual union, she might forgive me in time. I recall her looking at me rather oddly and replying with something which I shall never forget."
"What, my love?"
"She said that she was relieved, actually; that the thought of marriage to me terrified her, and then she wished me well. I must admit I was very glad she took the news so graciously, for I am not sure I could have dealt with her hysterics, as well as her mother's."
"Terrified? My darling Mr. Darcy, you might be a bit imposing at times, but I have never found you terrifying." Another kiss followed this; then, "But what shall you do with your mother's letters? Save them for your own children, so they might see how you rebelled against family aspirations and are happy in spite of it?"
"Certainly not," he replied, "My children will be free to marry whomever they wish." Although she smiled doubtfully, he continued, "As I have little desire to read the letters again, I suppose they should be burnt."
"But, no," she argued, "They are your last record of your mother's thoughts, and even though you have not followed through with her dreams for you, they might keep the memory of her closer to your heart."
He considered her idea before speaking again. "Very well," he conceded, "I shall give them to you. If you feel I need to be reminded of her unrealistic ambitions for whatever reason, you may take them out and show them to me again."
"As you wish," she agreed, although somewhat reluctantly, for despite this inducement she could not look forward to such an occasion; then, as her thumb began to softly stroke his cheek, she added, "I believe, in the end, she wished only for your happiness."
"And," he finished with a look that succeeded in melting her heart, "She could not know that my happiness is, and always shall be, you."
The kiss shared at that moment might best be described as one of deep satisfaction for both parties, and, because of this and various other factors, did not cease nor even diminish for some time thereafter.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Bernadette Paquin dealt with the unenviable position of being too immature to socialise with the adults on a regular basis, yet far too old to be kept in the nursery with the younger children. Much of the time she tried to be helpful in that regard by offering to read aloud from a storybook to the four little ones, or assisting Jamie and Ethan in setting up their toy soldiers into valid armies. It was a challenge, however, not to become quite bored with the whole ordeal.
In London, she had two especial playmates from school: Amanda with the lovely brown curls and infectious laugh, and Gwendolyn, who was easily the smartest of the three. It was very hard to be separated from them now. How they would have loved the sea and the dramatic architecture of the house. How they would have worshiped Mr. Darcy with his dark curly hair and cleft chin, or Colonel Fitzwilliam with his teasing manners, as she did. And, how they would have been so very impressed at meeting a real Baroness. Many times she tried to picture them there with her and would hold imaginary discussions on events which might be occurring around the estate.
As a result, she wrote copious letters to each of them using the methodical penmanship she practised many hours to perfect; posting them almost daily in the little basket near the front door which was set there for that single purpose. Oftentimes, she dawdled near to it, in hopes of not having to return immediately to the nursery and its rather limited environs.
On some of these occasions, she would meet Mr. Nelson on his way out-of-doors and they would strike up, what she hoped to be, an intelligent conversation. He would ask her what she thought of the dismal weather of late, or if she supposed London might be suffering under the same conditions as they. The amazing thing was that he appeared to truly listen and give serious consideration to her opinions.
Imagine her delight, then, on that singular afternoon when he most graciously invited her to join him.
"Have you not seen the ruins of the abbey as yet?" he queried, noticing her unabashed wonderment at his application.
"No," was her breathless reply, "...Of course I must go and ask my mama, but I would dearly love to see them! Thank you, sir!" Then she turned and took the stairs two at a time, completely forgetting the rules on how young ladies are expected to behave while in company.
Fortunately, her mother, still in the sad mood she had been wrapped in for some time, only nodded at her daughter's request. After snatching her blue spencer and bonnet from their hook, Bernadette raced back to the first floor, where, she was relieved to see, Mr. Nelson still patiently waiting for her return.
"You are ready, then?" he inquired cheerfully, before turning and opening the heavy front door without waiting for, nor expecting an answer.
Although still partly overcast, the rain had ceased, leaving everything looking and smelling extraordinary. Without conscious thought, she inhaled deeply; her action duly noted by the barrister, who smiled knowingly before turning to stride in businesslike fashion toward the woods. Sheer excitement allowed her to keep up with him; for the idea of being admitted into such a great man's company, while at the same time escaping from the dull routine of the nursery, was so invigorating that she felt her feet barely touch the ground.
While they walked (or trotted in the case of Bernadette), he told her of the abbey; in particular the nuns who had inhabited the place until only a century-and-a-half earlier.
"Were they allowed to speak?" she asked, having heard of the many silent and cloistered orders from her history text.
"Oh, yes," he assured her, "In fact, their voices were the very asset which spared them from many a scavenging monarch."
"How is that?" panted she, narrowly avoiding a slab of granite jutting out of the ground.
"They sang," was his answer, "and so beautifully that even Henry VIII was inspired to look elsewhere to fill his coffers."
"He was the one who married so often," she frowned in an effort to remember correctly.
"Yes, a convenient consequence of his naming himself ultimate sovereign of the Church. The sisters of St. Lucius, meanwhile, were quite often invited to perform at the royal court."
"So they were famous?"
"Not so much; for they were, by principle, compelled to refuse such invitations."
"Why was that?"
"They did not leave the grounds of the abbey, you see. And, even if they allowed themselves to do so, they could never give the appearance of condoning the King's nefarious behaviour."
"That must have made him angry," she suggested, pausing to catch her breath.
"Well, of course they did not share such concerns with any of the countless couriers sent here by his most eminent majesty. Still, I have to presume him to have surmised the true reason, after all, as his requests were declined in so consistent a manner. He was not, I understand, a stupid man. And, he must have been aware in his own heart of the nuns being in the right of it, for he never sought official chastisement for such open insubordination. In any case, they survived as a community long after his, and many of his descendants', regal power had come to an end."
"Oh look!" cried she suddenly, as she spied a small piece of deep blue glass lying amid a bed of mushrooms. Picking it up carefully and wiping the mud from it with her sleeve, she held it up for his inspection. As it was obviously a mere segment of something larger, it was difficult to determine its original usage or value. Still, he studied it as minutely as though she had discovered the rarest of gems.
"A precious piece of a stained glass window, no doubt," he declared, returning it to her with some ceremony; "We are, I believe, in the vicinity of the chapel."
Although there was little evidence of such an edifice other than an occasional squared-off stone half buried in the earth, he spoke so positively that she did not question it. As they moved further into the forest, the numbers of these stones increased; some of them still stacked into partial walls. Moss and ivy grew densely between each block, so that one might be standing very close to a foundation, and yet not recognise it in the least.
Being a naturally curious child, Bernadette became so involved in seeking out these "walls", that she ran headlong into one without any warning whatsoever.
With an "oomph!" she stepped back abruptly, her left shoulder bearing nearly the full brunt of the collision.
Immediately Mr. Nelson took note of the situation and suggested, his voice not unsympathetic, "Perhaps a rest might be in order."
Nodding in agreement and concentrating on not crying aloud like a baby, she sat down onto a low partition while rubbing her loudly complaining shoulder bone.
At length, he queried, "You are better?" It was more a statement than a question, and she nodded again. Once the initial pain had eased, she could do so with some truth.
"Good," as they turned in the direction of the house, he added ruefully, "I suppose I will have to explain your injury to your mother, and she shall be rightly indignant."
"She shall, more likely, scold me for being careless," Bernadette admitted, "Although, of late, she has said very little about anything at all to me directly. I am afraid she is ill...or something..."
This last was said in a tone of such sorrow that the barrister felt inclined to cheer her; an inclination he generally ignored in the belief that he could not be bothered with such trivialities. "Nonsense," he declared now, "I am certain she is quite well. Why, only this morning I witnessed her eating a most healthy breakfast." Here he spoke a purely deliberate falsehood, for she had, in fact, taken little or nothing by way of nourishment for many days.
"She is growing thinner," continued Bernadette dolefully, "What will I do, Mr. Nelson, if she does not recover? Perhaps I shall have to sell pies on the streets, or go to work in an orphanage or a...workhouse." She had heard of such dismal places, of course, and right now the prospect matched her temper perfectly. Despite such a forecast, she brightened. "I shall be like poor Daphne Goodheart in 'Haven of Hope'," she stated, naming one of her very favourite novels.
"Oh? And, what happened to Daphne Goodheart in 'Haven of Hope'?" he asked, amused by her abrupt change of mood.
"She was eventually rescued from a life of toil and despair by a wealthy uncle," replied the girl, becoming more and more engrossed with her story. "Of course, she did not know she even had an uncle, so it was a most happy circumstance when they discovered one another at last."
"Of course."
"Have not you any nieces, Mr. Nelson?" she asked somewhere between curiosity and concern.
"No," he replied, his tone cheerful, "Nor any nephews either, thank God."
"No brothers or sisters?"
"Not a one. I do recall having an aunt somewhere in Scotland, but we do not communicate if we can at all avoid it."
"Oh." Mulling over his words, she fell into a prolonged silence; thus he was more than a bit startled when she suddenly exclaimed, "Why,...is that not Mrs. Wickham?"
He looked to where she was pointing and heard himself confirming, "Yes, so it is." For there, some fifty yards from where they were, stood the figure of Lydia Wickham; far too occupied to have taken any notice of the two of them. Another figure, a man, was seated astride a black horse above her, his scarlet garments a sharp and dramatic contrast to the cast of his mount. At the moment, he was bent down, his face meeting the lady's in what must be described as a most heartfelt kiss.
When he had straightened enough so they could make out his features, Mr. Nelson asked the now fascinated Bernadette, "Do you recognise the young man? Can it be Mr. Wickham, do you suppose?"
"I do not believe so," she answered, her brow wrinkled in concentration, "I saw a tiny likeness of Mr. Wickham in the great hall at Pemberley, where the Darcys' live in Derbyshire, and I cannot believe it to be the same gentleman ...This one's bearing is very different, somehow."
"In that case," he declared with ill-concealed amusement, "We had best be on our way at once."
As they resumed walking with far more alacrity than previously, the girl inquired, "Should we not have waited for Mrs. Wickham? Perhaps she might have introduced us."
At that moment, unfortunately, Mr. Nelson was struck with a rather severe case of coughing and could not answer her question; a circumstance which would have caused his companion no little concern, except for the fact that although helpless in speech, he still managed to maintain a steady and almost hurried pace.
By the time he had recovered sufficiently, they were near enough to the house so that he bid her good-day there on the lawn, saying, "I am truly sorry to see such a pleasant afternoon come to an end. With luck, we shall repeat the occasion soon. Before we part, however, might I offer you a small piece of advice, Miss Paquin?"
Curtseying in reply, and feeling both pleased and embarrassed by his compliment, she nodded.
"I would not mention to the others of our seeing Mrs. Wickham in the woods," he suggested with an odd little smile; then, "at least, not immediately. Some things, I know, are far better left to themselves."
Without waiting for an answer nor offering further explanation he withdrew, striding off in the direction of the conservatory as though on a mission not to be delayed.
© 2002, 2003, 2004 Copyright held by the author.