Beginning, Section II, Next Section
Chapter 6
Posted on 2008-09-24
The night Elizabeth passed had apparently been spent plotting Darcy's next labor, after all, for on his stumbling to the connecting door the following morning, he discovered she was ready to answer his query:
"You have to get rid of that annoying bird."
"I already told you," Darcy said with a sigh, rubbing the stubble that still covered his cheeks, "I can't kill her. She's my aunt."
"Not that bird," Elizabeth said in frustration. "The other bird."
Darcy considered that perhaps it was a function of his having spent half the night quaffing ale with his servants and the other half trying to sleep off the effects, but even taking that into consideration her statement still seemed confusing. He sighed again and ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair. It was too early for this nonsense.
"And you would like me to kill it?"
"Not kill it -- where are you getting these notions? I just want you to get rid of it."
"And where is this bird? Is it in the house?"
"No. It was outside my window, booming all night. You didn't hear it?"
Darcy laughed ruefully. "No; I was fairly to-do last night. I wouldn't have heard it if it had been directly beside my ear. Have you had problems with this bird before? Are you sure it wasn't just passing through?"
"It's been booming like that the past few nights," she said. "But I simply couldn't take it last night. It awoke me early on and then just kept up the racket until I finally gave up on sleeping anymore. I tried yelling at it from my window, but it made no difference. It finally quit an hour or so after daybreak."
That would explain why he hadn't heard it. He hadn't even cracked an eye at the crack of dawn.
"So you want me to drive it away," he said.
"Ideally," she replied. "I suppose, if all else fails, you could kill it, but I'd really prefer not. I mean, what if it were a mother with little baby birds?"
Darcy briefly and grumpily considered suggesting shooting them, too, what with the likelihood of their growing up to be loud, booming birds, as well, but he decided it sounded cruel, especially given his listener's advanced state of motherhood. Instead, he agreed to the task of finding and relocating the pest.
"How would you like to help me get rid of a bird this afternoon? Perhaps two or three if it has children," Darcy said to Bingley over breakfast. After a refreshing bath and a shave and a healthy few cups of coffee, he felt a bit more ready to face the day, and had come down to the breakfast room to find his friend still eating.
Bingley grinned. "Would love to. Haven't been out hunting in a while. Though, and I don't know if you've noticed, the servants are all a bit lethargic this morning, so I don't know how they'll be at flushing."
"No, we're not going shooting. It's just the one bird I have to get rid of. And that's 'get rid of,' as in 'remove from the grounds.'"
"That seems odd," Bingley mused as he buttered his toast. "Is it another of your tasks?"
"Indeed."
"So where is this bird, then, and why are we disposing of it?"
Darcy explained what Elizabeth had told him.
"I thought I had heard someone yelling loudly this morning," Bingley murmured. "Jane told me I was imagining things."
"And you will help?" Darcy asked.
"Why, of course!" his friend replied. "I should enjoy it, I think."
Thus it was the two gentlemen were found half an hour later at the rear of the house, beating random shrubs with sticks. A few passing servants, thinking this odd, stopped to watch. Soon a small crowd had gathered.
Mrs. Reynolds, curious about the idleness of her servants and then even more curious about what could possibly have gotten into her master and his guest, approached them hesitantly. "Mr. Darcy, may I possibly be of any help?"
Darcy turned in surprise. "Oh, Mrs. Reynolds. No, I don't believe so, unless you happen to know where a bird might be hiding here. It was disturbing my wife last night."
"Ah," she replied, thankful it was no stranger a reason than any of his past explanations. "I don't believe I have seen any nests hereabout. And I cannot say that I have heard any birds during the night, nor seen any birds hanging about, other than the usual sparrow or wren. But if this bird was, indeed, disturbing your wife last night, might you not wish to look closer to her window?"
So Darcy and Bingley moved to the other wing of the house, where the master suite was located, and began beating the bushes there.
After a time, though, they grew tired of this activity.
"Darcy, is there no other way we can find this bird?" Bingley complained, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. "It's rather hot out here, and we've had no luck thus far.
"Besides," he murmured, leaning closer to his friend. "I think all we're doing is providing entertainment for your hired help." He gestured behind his hand toward the small group of gardeners who were standing amid the flowers, leaning on their hoes and other tools.
"Nonsense," Darcy said, swinging his stick and narrowly missing a pot. "I don't give up so easily. We'll find that bird; you mark my words."
And they did. No more than half an hour later, they began to move farther away from the house, thinking the bird might have a range, and as they skirted the reedy area around the pond, their flushing produced results. A good thwack by Bingley set off a racket that could have been heard several miles away, even by Mrs. Jenkinson; not a second later a decently large, brown bird blustered out and took to flight. They watched as it disappeared into the distance.
"Good job, Bingley!" Darcy exclaimed as he turned to his friend. "I think that's done it."
"But what was it?" Bingley asked.
Darcy had to admit his knowledge of the avian species lacked, but he was sure that, what with the scare they had no doubt given it, it was doubtful it would be back. Task complete.
But there he would have been wrong. That night, he sat awake in bed listening to the constant, repetitive call outside his closed window: the warbling highs, the gurgles, the trills, the crescendoing whistle. And though he hadn't heard it the night before, he knew the blasted bird was back.
Again, he was wrong.
"That wasn't the same bird," Elizabeth said through the door, sounding more tired than she had the day before. It made him want to gather her in his arms and take her to bed. The minute his head hit the pillow, he would be out like a light.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Of course. You want to go to sleep."
"Well, yes, but that's not what I was saying just now," Elizabeth said with a sigh. "I need you to get rid of this bird, too."
"Does this count as another task?" Darcy asked between yawns.
"No. And stop that," she said with a yawn.
An hour later, Darcy and Bingley were again outside the house, searching through the bushes for a sign of the bird in question. After an in-depth description of the annoyance of the night before and a brief re-enactment of the noises he had been forced to endure, Darcy described their task for the day.
"I don't really understand," said Bingley now. "How isn't this another labor?"
"Because the task was to get rid of the annoying bird," Darcy explained with a sigh. "By Elizabeth's reasoning, this means any bird that annoys her, no matter that it seems to be a new bird every night."
"I'll never figure out this so-called feminine logic," Bingley said. "Why, just the other day Jane was telling me that I should reconsider ever wearing this waistcoat again. What's wrong with this waistcoat? I've had it for at least ten years, and it's always seemed fine to me. Nice colors and pattern, and all."
"Perhaps if you're blind," Darcy replied, eyeing the puce-checkered bad decision that was currently straining against his friend's midsection. "By the by, I was going to ask earlier, and I don't mean to sound impolite, but have you put on some weight?"
Bingley colored up. "I guess I have put on a few stone in the past months," he said, patting his belly. "I suppose it's because of the baby, and all. I've been eating as much as Jane at meals, I think."
"Yes, but she's eating for two."
Bingley didn't have anything to say to that.
"But I really do think you ought to listen to your wife on this one," Darcy said, parting the branches on another shrub. "As nicely as I have no doubt she put it --"
Suddenly he shouted and fell backwards as the hedge into which he had stuck his head erupted with shrill sounds of alarm and rustling branches. A few seconds later, a smallish brown bird flew out from the greenery and flitted to another bush, where it called out with a loud "hu-eet, hu-eet!" and odd croaks that made him wonder if he hadn't just discovered a new bird-frog species.
"I'd say that thing is it, if it didn't sound nothing like it did last night," Darcy said from where he sat on the ground.
"So, what do we do?" Bingley asked, offering a hand and helping his friend up.
They both stood looking at the dense bush in which their nemesis sat yelling at them. "Well, it doesn't seem violent -- just loud," Darcy finally offered. "And it's really small. Perhaps we can trap it with a net and then haul it somewhere far from here."
Bad idea.
"I could shoot it," Bingley offered cheerily when the two had regrouped a safe distance away from the new bush the bird now occupied.
"No, no; too close to the house," Darcy replied, checking his perforated scalp for blood. "I wouldn't want to miss and hit someone accidentally." He looked up to see Lady Catherine walking towards them, Mr. Collins not far behind. "Or intentionally."
"Fitzwilliam Darcy!"
With a startled squawk, the bird in the bush flew out and away across the lawn. Darcy and Bingley stared after it, mouths agape.
"It's afraid of my aunt," Darcy muttered after a moment. "I should have known."
Lady Catherine banged her cane on the ground impatiently. "What is it you are doing out here, Nephew?" she cried in the same imperious voice. "I insist you come here and tell me at once."
Darcy approached her, reluctantly followed by Bingley. "Aunt Catherine," he began, "I am sorry I have not been attentive to you recently. I've had a bit to do --"
She interrupted: "If I had wished for excuses, I would have asked for them, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Now, what are you doing out here? And why are you bleeding? Have you been fighting?" She looked narrowly at Bingley, who quailed under her gaze.
"No, Aunt Catherine, we have not been fighting," Darcy said tiredly, mopping the blood on the back of his hand with a handkerchief.
"Well, I insist you stop bleeding immediately. It is highly improper to lose blood in a woman's presence."
"Most improper," Mr. Collins echoed.
"I shall do my best," Darcy said. "Bingley and I were merely trying to get rid of a bird that has been causing some disturbance during the night."
"What bird? I haven't heard any birds," Lady Catherine said with a scowl. "I suppose this has something to do with your wife. I am quite displeased with her. She was completely unreceptive to my counsel yesterday, and I have not seen her since."
"I apologize for my cousin, your ladyship," Mr. Collins said. "She can often be very headstrong and unmindful of her behavior. Not," he added hastily, glancing with wide eyes at his host, "that that is a bad thing, always, in certain people of distinction, that is." Beads of sweat appeared on his brow, and he fluttered his hands nervously.
Darcy ignored him. "Aunt Catherine, my wife has been under a lot of strain recently."
"Strain? I heard her yesterday in the library laughing with your sister-in-law and Mrs. Collins," Lady Catherine said. Mr. Collins swallowed visibly and took a step back, bowing and apologizing.
"Well, yes . . . she is trying to ease her nerves through laughter. I have heard it is a very effective technique," Darcy said hesitantly. He hastily continued when it looked as if his aunt would interject: "But perhaps we might go inside and discuss this more thoroughly, Aunt. I will have Dawkins bring you some refreshments in the parlor, while I go make myself more presentable."
Lady Catherine, who had made the great effort of walking outside in search of her nephew and considered the effort of returning to the house just as balefully, thought this a most agreeable suggestion. Mr. Collins, quite naturally, agreed.
On his way through the foyer after leaving his aunt in the parlor, Darcy was informed of the arrival of the post. "Lord Castleraugh, Sir Percy, my man of affairs. . ." Darcy mumbled, flipping through the letters on the silver tray. "Yes, put these in my study, Dawkins. I'll deal with them later. Oh, and Dawkins," he said, pausing in his flight up the stairs, "do bring my aunt something to drink in the parlor. Something potent, perhaps."
"Sherry and hemlock, sir?"
"Perhaps without the hemlock, Dawkins."
He should have agreed to the hemlock, Darcy thought later as he listened to his aunt describe, in detail, the many ways Pemberley could be run more efficiently.
"Aren't you glad you didn't marry me?" Anne whispered as she poured herself a glass of sherry from the sideboard while her mother wasn't looking. "You know she would have lived here."
"I would have shot her first, I think," Darcy said, taking a sip of his brandy.
"What are you talking of?" his aunt said from across the room. "I demand to know of what you are speaking."
"Bird hunting," Darcy replied. Anne nearly spit her drink.
"Ah, yes, that bird you were looking for this afternoon. I do have a few suggestions on how you might capture it."
Naturally. As Lady Catherine described the type of net needed and the speed at which one must needs swing it, Mr. Collins marveled at her wisdom, Mrs. Collins and Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, Georgiana looked confused, and Anne fell asleep; Darcy wondered how his life had gotten to this point.
"Where was your support, as a friend?" he grumbled to Bingley later as they were playing billiards while the women were in the drawing room, having coffee and nattering about whatever women nattered about after dinner. Mr. Collins might have been with them.
"I was checking on Jane," Bingley said.
"For two hours?"
He blushed. "We had a lot to talk about."
"Sorry," Darcy said, embarrassed. "I shouldn't have asked."
His friend reddened even further. "No, no, we were talking about you and Elizabeth. About these tasks, and whether it was really helping anything at all. I mean, I know you're trying to make up for what you did, but Elizabeth's still holed up in her bedroom and you're off running hither and yon on all these labors. Shouldn't you just . . . oh, I don't know -- talk about it?"
Darcy thought for a bit, then set his billiards stick aside and leaned up against the table. "I don't know, Charles. It's a good question. I think, at first, neither she nor I were in a good place to simply talk about it. So these tasks gave us something to do, something to prove we were working on fixing the problem. But now . . . well, now it's become more that I'm a knight-errant on his quest, that Elizabeth is my damsel in distress and I'm battling her dragons for her. And they're things I probably would have done, in any case -- I would have sought out the Wickhams, I would have taken care of this bird, I would have (eventually, I'd hope) cleaned out the attics. Sure, I wouldn't have invited my aunt here, but it did go a long way in healing our breach, so mayhap not.
"Besides," he added, "I'm beginning to enjoy myself."
In relation to completing the tasks, that is, and not this particular task, he amended later that night as he listened to the constant whirring and "pip" sounds of a new bird outside the window. He didn't need Elizabeth to tell him come morning (though she did, sounding even more tired than the day before) that this bird needed to be relocated as well.
"Did you ever build that trebuchet?" Darcy asked when Mrs. Collins put her plate down across from him at the breakfast table.
She paused halfway into her seat. "What, did you want to sling my husband somewhere?"
"No, actually -- a bird."
"You know they can fly, right?"
Darcy rubbed his face wearily. "I'm just getting so sick of this. I have gotten maybe five hours of sleep in the past three nights -- and all of those hours were in the first night. It's as if the whole of the avian species has hatched a plot to rob me of any claim to sanity I might have possessed."
"I've never known birds of a different feather to flock together," Mrs. Collins said wryly.
"In this case, I could believe it," he said with a sigh. "Last night was another one. All night, that repetitive, fluctuating, I don't know what to call it but purring noise. Every so often it would get lower, but then right back up and on and on for minutes."
"Oh, yes. I think I heard it at one point," she said.
"At one point?" Darcy goggled. "You were able to sleep through that?"
She looked at him with incredulity. "You think it was more annoying than my husband?"
"But what do I do about it? If I get rid of this one, I have no doubt there will be another tomorrow even louder than the last."
"Then make sure they don't come back," Mrs. Collins said reasonably.
"But how?"
"Well, what are they afraid of?" she asked.
"My aunt, apparently."
"Yes, well, we can't have your aunt stand about in the garden all day and all night . . . or could we?" She thought for a bit. "No, no; won't work at all. Let's see, what about some sort of predator?"
"Well, we've already eliminated my aunt. You want me to get a cat?" Darcy asked with some doubt. "How long would that last, once it starts leaving little birds on the step for Elizabeth to trod upon?"
A slow smile crept across Mrs. Collins' lips. "I didn't necessarily mean a live predator."
Plans in hand, Darcy spent the rest of the morning in consultation with his head groom, who was a legend with a knife, and in the afternoon made a trip into the village to visit the local milliner. Around dusk, he and the groom, with the help of a gardener, planted a large stake in the garden near the window of the master suite, atop which they placed their work of art.
The result was apparent immediately.
"Can you hear that?" Elizabeth whispered through the door later that night.
Darcy opened his window and leaned out, taking in the cool air and soft buzz of late summer. "What?" he asked after pulling the sash again. "I don't hear anything."
"Exactly -- silence. Oh, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
It wasn't perfect silence, of course. Not with Darcy's recent run of luck. No more than half an hour later, the sound of a soft "whoooo, whoooo" broke the stillness.
"I think it's in love," he whispered through the connecting door as the owl outside continued to hoot. "I probably should have had Jim carve a hawk instead, now I think on it. I believe they sleep at night. But we can probably live well enough with this bird, don't you think?"
There was no answer.
"Elizabeth?" he whispered again, a bit louder.
When his query garnered no response, he turned the handle, noticing with some pleasure that it was unlocked, and crept inside. His footfalls on the carpet made no sound as he approached the bed, where a patch of moonlight illuminated Elizabeth's hair, turning it to silver. The blankets pooled about her distended waist, and soft wuffles issued from her parted lips.
"I think she can live with it," he whispered with a smile, tenderly stroking her hair and earning from her a snort and a wuffle. Gently he pulled the covers up a bit higher; then he tiptoed back to his room, closing the door quietly behind him
Chapter 7
Posted on 2008-10-01
Elizabeth woke refreshed and cheery the next morning. So, cheery, in fact, that she almost made the next labor sound effortless and, if it can be believed, fun.
Almost. But Darcy knew better. This task was No Fun and likely to take up much of his time and a significant amount of his patience. Especially when he remembered the letters left in the study. Yes, there it was -- the letter from his man of affairs:
Dear Sir, (it read)As mentioned in my previous letter, (Darcy couldn't remember another letter, but that have may been because the post was piling up recently) the Wickhams have not been behaving as appallingly as had been expected. In the past week, they have spent significant time visiting Longbourn and the village of Meryton and have not burned down Netherfield, which you had expressed as a fear.
Mrs. George Wickham visits often with her family, though she has on occasion gone to the village with the youngest Miss Bennet (Catherine). These trips were spent primarily in purchasing items of clothing, bonnets, and other fripperies. I have enclosed a list of the items with their respective costs associated. The total fiscal damage is 15p2s5d.
Mr. George Wickham has been spending much of his time in the village inn, imbibing and playing cards with the local men there. His luck has been moderately good, so that his total losses amount to no more than 4p12s. I have enclosed a list of the men he plays cards with, the types and amounts of ale he has drunk, and the three rumors he started about you.
I have several times prevented Mrs. George Wickham from purloining the silver, though upon their removal from this house you may wish to have it counted, to be sure. Last night I discovered Mr. George Wickham in the gallery; when asked what he was doing, he informed me he was merely straightening the very expensive portrait that may or may not be a Sir Peter Lely. I have placed a footman in the gallery now, but an inventory of this house's more pricey items might be needed.
Unfortunately, in my position I am not able to offer a more definitive guard on Mr. Bingley's rental location. My recommendations -- and I would strongly suggest these -- would be either the Wickham's removal from the premises or the arrival of a more imposing and authoritative overseer to effect the first recommendation.
Sincerely, Yr. Servant,
George Thomas
The man, though very literal, was good at his job. So if Mr. Thomas thought Darcy should be at Netherfield overseeing the removal of the Wickhams, Darcy should be at Netherfield, little as he liked it.
It was just as well Elizabeth had asked him to do it.
The Wickhams, she told him, were bound for the port of Alnmouth, for who knew what reason. Yes, of course, Lieutenant George Wickham was stationed there with the rest of his regiment for the purpose of defending the home counties. But anyone with sense knew that Napoleon, even should he escape from Elba, was highly unlikely to ever invade Northumberland, even had he some notion of invading England via the River Aln. Perhaps there was still the threat of Vikings in that area.
In any case, they had to send the idiot somewhere, Darcy reflected as he rode down to Hertfordshire, a sidesaddle with necessities on his pack and a groom mounted on a spare horse behind him. And, in a sense, it probably helped to bolster the local economies to have so many idle people descending upon a town. That is, if any of them could pay their way.
Which was not the case with the Wickhams, Darcy found soon enough when he arrived at Longbourn. He had decided to make a quick stop there before Netherfield, to speak with Mr. Bennet and get a good lay of the land. It was a good thing his man of affairs was there, as well.
"Mr. Darcy, sir," cried Mr. Thomas joyfully as his master entered the study.
Mr. Bennet, who had not seen his (secretly favorite) son-in-law in several months, set down his glass of Port, sat back in his chair, settled his clasped hands on his stomach, and said, "I was expecting you nigh on a week ago, Mr. Darcy. But, then, you do have other properties to call home, I suppose."
"Mrs. Darcy has not kicked me out quite yet," Darcy said with a slight smile. "That's not until the fifth child, isn't it?"
"True, true," Mr. Bennet mused. "So what, then, brings you to Hertfordshire?"
"I'm here to escort the Wickhams to Northumberland."
Mr. Thomas nearly fell on his master in gratitude. "Thank heavens!" he sighed. "I've been trying to keep them under control, sir, but I can only do so much in my position. I believe that Mr. Wickham understands the situation such that any financial remuneration would come only after I report to you, as he has been spending within reason. But Mrs. Wickham, on the other hand, and no offense sir," he said, turning to Mr. Bennet, who waved away any offense, "but she is the most spendthrift person I have ever encountered in my forty years in this profession. Absolutely uncontrollable."
"Yes, but they are family," Darcy replied.
"I've had my doubts," said his father-in-law.
"How deep into my pocket must I reach this time?"
Mr. Thomas quickly offered him some papers filled with the cramped, exact writing of a career accountant. "I've underlined the most pressing items, which, coincidentally, were the reason for my visit to Longbourn. Mr. Bennet was going to settle the smaller ones to allow for a more immediate departure."
"Naturally, with your money," Mr. Bennet murmured.
"Immediate departure?" Darcy questioned as he glanced through the lists.
Mr. Thomas cleared his throat. "I hope that will be no trouble, sir."
"No, no trouble at all. I was just curious about the why."
There was a moment of silence, and Darcy looked up. Mr. Bennet was looking highly amused, but Mr. Thomas looked pained. The color was high in his cheeks, and he seemed to struggle with something inwardly until his eyes bugged and he blurted out, "I just can't take it anymore, sir!"
Darcy felt a bit taken aback, never before having experienced such a show of emotion from his man of affairs. He was a stoic man who had always seemed able to deal with any circumstance, no matter how extreme or stressful.
But then, he'd never had to deal with the Wickhams.
"Every day, following them around, going through their rooms to ensure they have not taken anything from the house, keeping track of everything they've purchased or wagered, or drunk," Mr. Thomas continued, warming to his theme. "And their constant bickering! Their petty little squabbles about how the other is to blame for everything that is wrong in their lives. Did you know Wickham blamed you, sir, no less than seven times last week for things wholly out of your control? Such as the state of the dining room. Tell me, how could you possibly have had any say about which epergne was placed on the table at dinner? And their disorder. I've never seen two people who cannot keep anything neat. Everything is all over the place and they blame each other when things are missing, when it's their own fault they've put it somewhere five minutes before! I just can't deal with this insanity!"
"I considered putting him down," Mr. Bennet told Darcy confidentially when Mr. Thomas had gone outside for a breather. "But I just didn't have the heart."
"I thank you for that," Darcy replied as he stood at the window and watched his man pace the garden, muttering and shaking his head. "He's still a good man of affairs. On reflection, though, he's probably better off here than at Pemberley. But maybe I should send him to London for a paid holiday. He's certainly earned it."
"Why? What's going on at Pemberley?" Curiosity laced Mr. Bennet's voice.
"What isn't?" Darcy said with a sigh. He filled his father-in-law in on the many events of the past few weeks.
When Mr. Bennet had wiped the tears from his eyes, he said, still chuckling, "I don't think I've laughed so hard since the day my cousin informed me of your imminent nuptials." When Darcy looked confused, he shook his head, cleared his throat, and said: "But I wish you luck on your endeavor. I have the feeling you may be the only one who could possibly achieve it."
Which didn't set his mind at any ease, Darcy thought grimly as he gazed out the window of the carriage as it rolled across the breadth of England. The Wickhams were currently not speaking to one another, so for the moment, at least, there was blessed silence, and Darcy had a chance to relax and think about the journey so far.
After sending his grateful man-of-affairs off in one carriage at Netherfield, Darcy had seen to the loading of the other traveling carriages (surreptitiously checking each piece of luggage for contraband), and then saw to the loading of the passengers. They had been reluctant, to say the least.
"But I don't want to go back to Northumberland," Lydia pouted from the doorway of the drawing room.
"Mrs. Wickham, you don't really have a choice," Darcy said for the third time. "Your husband has been posted there with his regiment."
"I don't see why I can't stay here," she replied, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "All my friends are here."
"I am sure you can make new friends in Alnmouth."
"No I can't."
Darcy gave up and went to find her husband.
"I don't see why I have to go back to Northumberland," Wickham groused to his wineglass. Darcy had no idea where the man had located another bottle of Port, when he had expressly ordered the butler to lock away the alcohol. But, then again, he shouldn't have been surprised. He had found five bottles of wine and two crystal decanters in Wickham's luggage.
"You don't really have a choice, Wickham," Darcy sighed. "Your regiment has been posted there."
"But Alnmouth . . . Why couldn't you have gotten me a commission in the regulars?"
Darcy raised a brow. "First off, because you aren't worth that much to me. Secondly, because I wouldn't subject a well-bred lady to the rigors of India or the West Indies, if she were willing to follow you there at all. And, thirdly, because you wouldn't last a day in the real army."
For a moment, Wickham looked as if he would take offense, then shrugged and took another swig of his wine.
"Now, are you going to help me, or not?" Darcy asked finally, when it looked as if there would be no more arguments.
Grumbling to himself, Wickham pushed himself to his feet and unsteadily walked past Darcy, out the door, and down the hall. At the doorway to the drawing room, he threw his wife over one shoulder and hauled her, kicking and screaming and pounding at his back, outside to the carriage, into which he deposited her like a lump of coal.
That was the highlight of the trip so far.
After that, it was bickering and backbiting, grousing and grumbling, and logic so fallacious as to be laughable. But Darcy wasn't laughing. As each moment passed, the urge to strangle one or both of them rose higher until, no more than five hours into the journey, he just couldn't take it anymore and he snapped, drawing surprised glances from both of the Wickhams as he roundly decried their lack of propriety and polite behavior.
Hence why the carriage was now blessedly silent.
But the ceasefire could only last for so long, and he knew it. Which is why, at the next carriage stop, he felt the need to take a walk and stretch his legs rather than his patience, for a change. He left his coachman in charge, with the understanding that the Wickhams be allowed to stamp around the stable yard, but go no farther than the inn or the privy.
He must have been speaking Greek. When he returned from his peaceful, mind-collecting stroll around a small park, he found the carriage empty of its passengers and the stable yard free of any perambulators.
His first thought, of course, was that Wickham might be having a drink in the inn. He was right. At a table in the taproom sat, hunched over, mug in hand, a familiar figure in a blue topcoat. With the assurance that Darcy would stand him one more drink, the prodigal promised to return to the carriage. Later.
In the meantime, Darcy had to locate the other missing person.
"John, by chance have you seen Mrs. Wickham?" Darcy asked when he had searched again the small stable yard.
The coachman looked over in surprise. "Oh, is she not back yet?"
"Back from where?"
The man looked slightly baffled and slightly embarrassed as he leaned over and whispered: "From the loo, sir."
Now, there was one place, indeed, Darcy had no intention of looking for Lydia. However, he could send a maid from the inn to fetch her.
"Ye mean the young lady what has the cherries on her bonnet, sir?" said the maid when he vaguely described his quarry.
Darcy, not being the kind to notice such things, assumed that must have been her.
"She's over Carlyle's shop, sir."
Carlyle's shop, it appeared, was a very well known area retailer of the most elegant and finely crafted teapots, tea sets, and other accoutrements of the aristocratic table. Drawing its stock from a renowned and promising company of Stoke, it offered to those who could afford it the brilliant whiteness and translucency of such delicate canvases on which artists of talent could apply their skill.
"You let her get into a china shop?" Darcy cried, burying his head in his hands and groaning.
"Sorry, sir," the coachman offered.
In the end, it wasn't too much trouble. Darcy extracted the excited and excitable Mrs. Wickham from the shop by purchasing her a new tea service, to be delivered to their new quarters in Alnmouth. He then ushered her back to the carriage before she could purchase any of the bonnets and folderols she espied in the other shop windows.
Once in the carriage, he laid down the ground rules, patiently and slowly explaining them to her in as small words as he could manage:
And later, when he awoke from his nap, the rules were, again, repeated.
"An' if'n [hic] we don't do what you say?" Wickham asked.
"Then you won't get the two hundred pounds at the end of our journey," Darcy replied.
It was amazing and slightly sad, he reflected as they pulled up to a remarkably shabby house that was apparently their destination, how well that worked. But he wouldn't complain about their grasping ways, seeing that he had just completed a three-day carriage ride with barely a hint of protest after the first go-round.
Aside from a brief "Ahem" he uttered when Lydia forgot herself halfway into the second day, Darcy did not have to reiterate the rules more than those first few times. Occasional interspersions of territorial leg-kicking and sulky behavior were inevitable, so the ride was not completely peaceful, but he could relax to the point of almost forgetting he was transporting two of the most childish and bull-headed people in all of Christendom.
And when he rode away the next morning, he was lighter of wallet but also vastly lighter of spirit. Though not as light as some people seemed to think.
"See, now wasn't that fun?" Elizabeth said brightly through the connecting door when he had returned from his trip and stomped around his room a few times for good measure.
"Barrels of fun, madam. Barrels of fun."
"That's wonderful," she said with a laugh. "Then you won't mind doing it next year.
Chapter 8
Posted on 2008-10-08
"She would have a bachelor such as yourself for breakfast."
"She's not that bad," Bingley professed weakly. He turned to Alex Lynley. "She's not that bad."
"The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks," Lynley said, winking at Darcy, who simply crossed his arms and shook his head.
"I'm not being funny, Lynley. You'd better make a resolution here and now not to get involved, or she'll have her claws in you by sunset."
Lynley scoffed.
"It's your funeral," Darcy said with a shrug.
Not that it was any of his business, really, he reflected as the scenery continued to roll by, slowly replacing green fields for grey, sooty buildings. After all, the young man was old enough to handle his own affairs, and old enough to learn the nature of a woman like Miss Caroline Bingley.
Despite Bingley's fraternal defense, Darcy knew Miss Bingley was dangerous to an unmarried man. He, himself, had been unmarried once. And he was never wrong about women. Or rarely, definitely.
At the very least, in this case he was right. The three men were in a carriage on the way to London for a little talk with the lady in question about the "friendly" letters she'd been exchanging with her sister-in-law. That is, Darcy was there to have the talk with the lady; Bingley was there because he thought, as the brother of the lady, he ought to be there and Lynley was there because . . . actually, Darcy didn't know why Lynley was there. Something about his mother.
But, in any case, it showed that Miss Bingley had evil depths that were little understood by the male mind. She was always plotting, she and that sister of hers, to make herself attractive to the opposite sex in ways they couldn't even grasp. Sometimes the veneer was pierced and she was shown for what she was: a female of marriageable age in search of the most well situated gentleman of means. But most of the time, she just appeared to be a well groomed, innocent young lady. Her fangs were well hidden.
"Darcy, I think you have a very cynical view of the gentle sex," Lynley said as they drove down Bond Street. He was gazing out the window, smiling in appreciation as they passed all the pretty young things out on shopping trips. "Personally, I think they're lovely."
"And I think you're insane," Darcy grumbled.
"No, no, I agree with him," Bingley said with a smile. "Why, I remember the first time I saw my Jane. I remember saying, 'Darcy, she's an angel.' And I was right, too, wasn't I?"
"Your wife is quite attractive," Lynley said.
"Why, thank you."
"I think you're both insane," Darcy muttered under his breath.
Bingley looked hurt, but Lynley just laughed. "Pay no attention to him, Bingley. He's a misanthropist at heart, especially when he isn't being softened by that lovely wife of his."
Darcy, realizing he was being a boor, apologized to his friend. "But I still think you're taking this too lightly, Lynley," he added. "Bingley only defends his sister because she's never pursued him. He has no idea what it's like."
"We shall see. We shall see," Lynley said.
But then they pulled up before the large townhouse Bingley had purchased some years ago, now used almost exclusively by the Hursts and Miss Bingley, and the issue was dropped. At least, the debate of it was.
From the moment Lynley set eyes on the admittedly beauteous Miss Bingley, he was awestruck and oblivious to his friend's glares of disapproval.
"Lynley?" Miss Bingley echoed, raising one elegant finger to the bottom curve of her soft, pale pink lips. "Are you, by chance, related to the Earl of Worthington?"
"I am, Miss Bingley," he replied, shifting his chair closer to the sofa on which sat the angel in green satin. "He is my grandfather. My father was the youngest of four sons."
"Ah," she said, the breath flowing out smoothly, knowingly. She smiled quietly, her eyelashes resting dark on the clear complexion of her cheek. "And your mother is Lady Honoria, daughter of Lord Pembleton, if I remember rightly."
"Yes, indeed. You are well acquainted with your Debrett's, I see."
Miss Bingley blushed becomingly, the pink filling her cheeks attractively and then receding. "Well, I do love to read," she said modestly.
Darcy snorted.
"Did you say something?" Bingley asked from where he sat in conversation with his sister and brother-in-law, the Hursts. All eyes turned toward Darcy.
He cleared his throat and, pushing away from the mantle, put his teacup down on the table in front of Miss Bingley. "I was thinking how lovely it would be to take a turn about the park. I hear there are beautiful flowers this time of year."
Mrs. Hurst looked at him skeptically. "I had no idea you were interested in botany."
"I am always interested in learning," he replied. "But I also thought it might do us good to get some fresh air."
Now she really looked suspicious. "I think you would need to return to the country for that, Mr. Darcy."
He ignored her and turned to the other lady in the room. "Miss Bingley, would you care to take a walk?" He said it with purely polite emotion, but his quarry's eyes narrowed in response.
Unfortunately, she had little choice if she wished to appear gracious. "I suppose a little stroll might be acceptable. I had best fetch my parasol and jacket."
"I shall come, too," Mrs. Hurst said hurriedly.
Soon, the whole party (minus Mr. Hurst, who had no intention of doing anything so strenuous and had hared off to his club at the first sign of exercise) was out in the park, each in their way trying to keep Darcy from singling out Miss Bingley.
"You're going to have to help me, Bingley," Darcy said to his friend as they walked several paces behind Lynley, who had both women on his arm and was grinning like a loon.
"Do I have to, Darcy? I mean, maybe Caroline was just in a bad mood."
"For seven months?"
Bingley shrugged helplessly. "It's happened before."
"No, this is the only way," Darcy said grimly. "Besides, shouldn't you care more about your wife's feelings? She's the one who has to read these missives every few weeks."
"Jane understands," Bingley hedged.
Darcy sighed. "This isn't going to just go away, Bingley. I know you don't want to raise bad blood, but I think at this juncture it's not a question of if, but when. I'd rather it be in the next few hours, rather than days. I don't think I can stand much more of this," he said, gesturing at the sappy expression on Lynley's face.
In the end, though, he was forced to wait until the following day, as Mrs. Hurst stuck like a barnacle to the man-of-war that was Miss Bingley. The latter, on the other hand, continued throughout dinner and afterward working the siege of Alex Lynley, whose defenses had clearly melted at the first smile, if the nodcock had had any in the first place. So now Darcy had two things to talk to Miss Bingley about.
Unfortunately, the morning was out of the question, as Miss Bingley refused to leave her rooms before noon on principle. The moment she descended for the day, however, the trap was sprung.
"Caro, I was wondering . . ." Bingley began when he met her at the foot of the stairs.
"If you wish for me to talk to your friend Mr. Darcy, I refuse," Miss Bingley said, looking down her nose at her younger brother. "With his marriage to that nobody, he has ceased to be of importance to me or anyone who is anybody. He can have nothing to say to which I would care to listen."
"That nobody is my sister-in-law, Caro," Bingley said, flushing slightly. "And that just illustrates the problem --"
"Well, whatever your problem is, I can't see what it has to do with me," she interrupted.
"You know, I hadn't agreed with him before --"
"And you should continue in that mode," Miss Bingley said with a sniff. "Mr. Darcy is full of opinions of little importance and even less reason. But if you would excuse me," she said, catching sight of Lynley leaving the breakfast room and going down the hall, "I have an errand in the . . . library. For Louisa."
And with that, she hurried gracefully in the direction of the door Lynley had entered, leaving her brother standing at the staircase with a strange half-smile on his face.
When she reached the library, she paused, checked her hair, took a deep breath, and, pasting an innocent but intimate smile on her face, opened the door and strode into the room, as if in search for a book.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she cried in surprise when she spotted the figure in the chair by the fire as she walked conveniently toward the fireplace, her hips swaying. "I hadn't realized you were in here, Mr. Lyn -- you!"
Darcy smiled slightly at the amusing picture she made, her jaw hanging slack as she stared at him in surprise. She looked around the room, puzzled. "Where did Mr. Lynley go? I swore I saw him . . . I mean, how do you do, Mr. Darcy?" she asked, recovering her poise and nodding frigidly at him. "Did you sleep well?"
"Despite being placed in the room with, undoubtedly, the only fireplace that smokes and the only bed whose ropes need tightening, yes, I believe I did," he said dryly. "As to Lynley, I'm afraid he was just passing through.
"But I am glad you stopped by, Miss Bingley, because we have to have a little chat," Darcy continued. He gestured toward the chair opposite. "Please, have a seat."
Miss Bingley sat down stiffly on the edge of the chair.
"You've been quite a regular co-respondent with Jane Bingley, I understand," he began.
"We write often to each other," she admitted with a nod.
"So you have completely overcome those objections to her background you so frequently shared with me before their marriage?"
Her cheeks infused with color. "Of course. We are sisters now."
"Ah, yes. Sisters. So it was pure familial feelings, then, when you wrote, ahem, let me see," he said, pulling a stack of letters from his coat pocket and consulting one. "Here it is: You will love spending Christmas at Netherfield, I'm sure. Your family lends itself to such a festive atmosphere. I'm afraid the Hursts and I cannot attend, as we have already engaged ourselves to the most genteel parties here in Town. Everyone who is anyone, of course."
Miss Bingley blinked. "I don't believe I understand your point, Mr. Darcy."
"Then perhaps another example might help. Here's one from February: You must stop by Madame Celeste's when you are next in Town. She's very exclusive, you know, but I could introduce you to her as a new client. You might already be aware of her through your uncle's connections, of course, but now that you're Mrs. Bingley we must have you seen in the proper fashion."
"I absolutely adore Madame Celeste's creations," Miss Bingley said, smoothing the fabric of her day gown. "I recommend her to absolutely everyone."
"Indeed. Then there is this letter: One of the Sheffields' hunting dogs had just had a litter before the house party arrived, and Louisa and I spent some time looking at (and, I admit, playing with!) the new puppies. One young female, in particular, reminded me very much of your sister Eliza Darcy."
"I think it was the dark, curling hair and the big, brown eyes," she mused, one finger tapping thoughtfully on her chin. "Very fine, of course."
Darcy cleared his throat. "I am not amused, Miss Bingley. You and I are both plainly aware that was not your intention -- on this, or on any of these letters. And, yes, I have gone through the entirety of your correspondence with Mrs. Bingley."
Miss Bingley did an admirable job of appearing affronted. "How incredibly rude, invading our privacy in such a way. You, sir, are no gentleman."
"And you are no lady," he replied equably. She gasped, but he continued: "You are a man-eater, though you hide it well under the guise of civility and friendship. Your sharp teeth would tear an unwitting person to shreds."
Miss Bingley was speechless for once, which allowed Darcy to continue:
"Unluckily for you, I am no green lad, and I am warning you to trifle neither with my sister-in-law nor my wife, who, you must have guessed, has had these letters shared with her, nor will you trifle with my patience." He stood and, from his imposing height, bent a steely gaze on Miss Bingley, who sat rigidly, her hands clenched in her lap and her nostrils flaring in contained anger. "And stay away from Lynley. His mother's even more maneuvering than you, and would never allow him to marry so low.
"Besides," he added before he left the room, "he's too young for you."
On further reflection, he probably shouldn't have added those last bits.
"Look, old man, hate to be the one to throw the rub, and all," Hurst said a few hours later when he ran into Darcy in the mews, "wouldn't even mention it, what, but happened to overhear my wife and her sister talking in the sitting room when I stopped in to change for a drive, and thought I might let you know, man-to-man and all, they seem to be raising some sort of a breeze."
Darcy sighed. "What were they saying?"
"Well, just that they were going to be enlisting some of their bosom bows, you know -- and a frightening pack of nags they are, I tell you -- to blacken your wife's name," Hurst said with a shrug. He turned suddenly interested eyes on Darcy. "By the by, what did you say to Caroline that's set up her bristles like that?
"Nothing, really," Darcy said with a slight smile. "She's been insulting my wife and my sister-in-law, and I just thought I'd let her know I wouldn't stand for it. Oh, and I might have degraded her social status and mentioned she's getting old."
Hurst whistled low. "'Pon rep, Darcy, you don't do it by half. Feel a tad sorry for her, you know; I mean, she's a nice stepper, and all, but a bit odd in her gait sometimes, ain't she?"
Perhaps, Darcy conceded, but that queer gallop made her no less dangerous. Somehow, he was going to have to fit her to the bridle, and what he'd tried so far hadn't worked. With a frown creasing his brow, he retraced his steps to the townhouse and went in search of Miss Bingley.
He found her in the music room, slaying Lynley with glances from those bold green eyes, shaded beneath thick black lashes. The poor sap sat beside her on the piano bench with not a clue as to his fate, turning the pages and listening to her lover-like whispers.
"Mr. Darcy!" cried Mrs. Hurst, who sat beside the door in the dual role of duenna and guard dog.
The couple at the instrument looked up, Miss Bingley hitting discordant notes as she glared at the intruder. Lynley stood with a grin. "Darcy! Had a good time on your ride?"
"A wonderful time," Darcy replied.
"Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were just inviting us to the Hampton's rout tonight," Lynley continued with an enraptured glance at Miss Bingley, who duly smiled. "Said it will be quite an interesting party. And I've been meaning to catch up with ol' Hampton, now he's gone and gotten hitched."
"I'm sure you'd have a wonderful time," Darcy said, "but I'm afraid it simply won't work."
"If you're worried about the proprieties, don't," his friend said. "Not only is Hampton an old friend-of-a-friend from Eton, but Miss Bingley said she knew Lady Hampton from finishing school. I'm sure it'd be no great trouble to get us added last-minute."
Darcy shook his head. "Oh, it's not that at all," he said. "It's that I don't think Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley will be attending, after all."
That got the right reaction. He smiled blandly and turned to Mrs. Hurst, who was making helpless gestures with her hands at her sister. "Mrs. Hurst, perhaps you might show Mr. Lynley the gallery. I understand your brother had brought some of the portraits of your ancestors here to add to the collection. Lynley has always been interested in art."
"Indeed I am," Lynley said jovially. "I would love to learn more about your family. Miss Bingley, would you care to join us?"
"Oh, no," Darcy said, shaking his head when that lady began to rise gratefully from the piano bench. "Miss Bingley has some more practicing to do, doesn't she?" She sat back down again.
"Now, then," he began when the other two had left and he had taken Lynley's place on the bench. Miss Bingley scooted over to the far end. "I understand that you had had some plans for tonight. I'm sorry to have disrupted them."
"I have no idea what you mean," she replied primly.
"Oh, don't you?"
"No."
"Well, that's good," he said. "Because I am sorry to say that if you had, indeed, known what I was talking about, I would have had to tell you that it would not have been without consequences."
"I fail to see how that should be."
It was time for a little plain speaking, he decided. "Just that, had you fed my wife to the gossip mongers, I would have had no compunction in feeding you to them, as well. Which do you think would satisfy them more? Rumors about a little-known gentlewoman, the wife of one of society's darlings? No, no; not much there. Not unless you make it up as you go, and that won't be difficult to refute.
"But you," he continued as she fumed. "Now, there is a subject with much -- dare I say it? -- meat on it. I'm sure they would consider some of the exploits your brother told me about very delicious, indeed."
"What about the sister?" Miss Bingley said nastily. "The youngest, who eloped."
"Ah," Darcy said softly. "An old bone, picked clean."
"Then you would have no fear of it being dug up."
Darcy hesitated, then said slowly, "No, I wouldn't. But let me make myself clear: if you even attempt to put your friends on that scent, your current open invitation will be revoked and you will never be welcome at Pemberley again, sister of Bingley or no."
It was a good threat, of course, but, unfortunately for his bargaining, not the best of timing.
"Did you know that their great uncle was the Marquis du Chambertin?" Lynley said as they bounced along in the lead carriage on their way back to Derbyshire.
"No, I didn't," replied a fascinated Bingley.
Darcy rolled his eyes, wondering what other portraits had come with the house.
"I am glad that you invited them to Pemberley, Darce," Lynley said.
Invited, no. Blackmailed, yes.
"I can't wait to introduce Miss Bingley to my mother."
That would go well, Darcy had no doubt. About as well as telling his wife she had more guests. But perhaps, as punishment, she would send him elsewhere for his next labor. He could only hope
Chapter 9
Posted on 2008-10-15
"Please let me come with you," Georgiana begged.
Darcy sat back in his chair and looked thoughtfully at his sister, who stood before his desk with clasped hands and a pleading expression in her large, soulful eyes. In a normal case, he would have wondered if this had something to do with their cousin, the charming Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had arrived on leave during Darcy's absence looking for a peaceful retreat away from his marriage-minded parents and had quickly jumped at the chance to escape this new, more disturbing madhouse.
The only reason the good colonel didn't realize it was a frying-pan/fire situation was he had only ever met one Bennet. And she, or so Darcy had thought, was the sane one.
But that brought him back to his younger sister's request. Normally, as was mentioned, he would have suspected a renewal of hero-worship for her dashing cousin, but, then, nothing around Pemberley these days was very normal.
More likely, it had something to do with their menagerie of guests.
"Is Miss Bingley bothering you?" Darcy asked gently.
"N-n-no," Georgiana stammered, flushing. "She's, I mean, I don't--"
"Georgiana . . ." he chided.
"Well, yes, I suppose so," she admitted. "But it's really just to catch the attention of Mr. Lynley, who has been visiting an awful lot since she arrived yesterday. I think it's to show him that she's kind to animals and small children. But I'm not a child! And I'm certainly not small, anymore."
No, indeed. Darcy had begun to notice that several years ago with the Ramsgate affair. Hence why he had no wish to put his starry-eyed sister and her healthy dowry in close proximity to his marry-for-money cousin, no matter he was her co-guardian. "What about your hostessing duties?"
"Well . . ." she began, hesitating. "It has been fun to visit with Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Collins, and even Anne, though she confuses me sometimes, but it is really hard to be hostess for Aunt Catherine." Her eyes widened in shame, filling with tears. "I'm sorry Fitzwilliam. I know she's our aunt, and I should not complain about her, but . . ."
Darcy came around the desk and wrapped his sister in a comforting embrace. "Shh," he said calmingly, rubbing her back. "It's all right. I feel the same way. Why don't we blame it on Elizabeth? After all, she's the one that's indisposed. Besides," he added with a wink, "she's not here right now."
Georgiana giggled, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the handkerchief he offered. "You know, I don't think she's really sick at all," she confided. "We had a small party in her rooms a few nights ago, and I thought she looked really healthy."
"I have no doubt you are right, Georgie," he replied. "But I have no doubt, too, that I'd be feeling no less indisposed if I had to deal with Aunt Catherine right now."
He drew his sister over to a pair of chairs by the fireplace and sat her down. "How about this, Georgie," he began after sitting down opposite her, "I will talk to Mrs. Collins, and, if she is agreeable, she can take over the hostessing duties and you and Mrs. Annesley can come with me and Colonel Fitzwilliam to Hertfordshire. But only, mind you -- oof!'
Georgiana had thrown herself into her brother's arms enthusiastically, expressing her gratitude. Darcy had barely patted her on the back twice before she was up again and babbling something about going to pack.
He let her go. He had no doubt Mrs. Collins would agree to the scheme.
"Of course," she indeed said when asked. "Poor Miss Darcy was looking a little peaked yesterday. She could use a holiday."
"I will, of course, have to tell my aunt she's actually in charge," he said.
"Oh, I understand," Mrs. Collins said, waving away any disclaimer. "Mrs. Reynolds and I will arrange everything."
Darcy nodded. "And remember, no killing everyone while I'm gone."
She looked at him innocently. "Would I do that?" She chuckled at his expression. "Besides, I have nothing against Anne, Jane, or Eliza. And Mr. Hurst doesn't seem all that bad a sort."
Somehow, this didn't reassure him completely. But he had his new labor to think about.
"I have to say, Darcy," the colonel was saying as they went downstairs to the waiting carriage, "this doesn't seem like your usual modus operandi, if you will. I mean, leaving everyone to themselves in your own home -- and Aunt Catherine, of all people. She's like to have everything moved around into its 'proper place' by the time we get to the end of the drive."
"I don't think it's quite so dire," Darcy said.
His cousin snorted. "And all to go and retrieve a hairbrush? From Hertfordshire. I really don't understand it."
"When you get married, you will."
"Oh, ho! Not you, too. That's just why I left Redford Abbey -- mother was giving me palpitations, the way she was trotting those thoroughbred ladies beneath my nose."
"Give over, coz," Darcy said. "You enjoy playing the ladies' man to those 'thoroughbreds,' as you call them, and you're going to enjoy yourself when you decide to settle down with the one with the largest purse."
Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged, but the sly smile betrayed him. "Perhaps. And then, again, maybe I'll marry a penniless flower girl."
They were still laughing when they joined the two women in the carriage.
"What's so funny?" Georgiana asked as the guffaws slowly died.
"Just the idea of our cousin marrying for anything less than ten thousand pounds," Darcy said with a smile.
"Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't marry for money. Would you?" she said, as she turned wide, trusting eyes on her cousin, who smiled and patted her hand.
"Of course not," he said. "Only for love."
With the look the two exchanged, Darcy decided to change the subject. Quickly.
"Those are some nice-looking sheep there."
Perhaps he should have taken more time to think of a good subject, he reflected when the other occupants of the carriage turned to him with identical puzzled expressions. Still, it was better than punching his cousin in the face or tipping him out of the carriage by his boots.
Which might also explain the rest of the thirty-seven non sequiturs that occurred during the two-day trip to Hertfordshire.
But it was much better that all four of them arrived at their destination without any mishaps, Darcy reflected grimly as, embarking at the front door, Colonel Fitzwilliam managed to evade his glaring cousin by pretending an interest in one of the carriage wheels.
"Which wheel?" Darcy asked suspiciously.
"The round one," the colonel replied.
The other three went inside without him.
"Miss Darcy! Mr. Darcy! Mrs. Annesley! What a wonderful surprise!" Mrs. Bennet exclaimed upon the trio being shown into the drawing room, where she, Miss Bennet, and Miss Catherine Bennet were ranged.
Darcy was confused. "Did you not receive the express I sent? The one to inform you of our visit?"
"It arrived yesterday afternoon," Mary said dryly. She returned to her book, vastly unconcerned with the visitors.
"And how is my daughter, Mrs. Darcy?" the older woman asked with a giggle as she fluttered her hands. "Ooh, how grand that sounds."
"Very well, madam," Darcy said stiffly, tugging slightly on his cravat, which felt nigh likely to choke him. "And how is your family?"
If Mrs. Bennet even noticed the stiltedness of the conversation, she paid it no mind. "Quite well; quite wonderfully, indeed. Why, in the time that you have been gone, we have had some vastly interesting visitors to our countryside. Vastly interesting, indeed. And one young gentleman even showed an interest in our dear Mary, here. Of course, she would not show him any interest, though I told her that if she didn't she would be sure to lose him. But, then, children have a way of not listening properly to their parents, as I'm sure you will discover soon enough. But," she said, turning with bright eyes to Georgiana, who shrank into herself slightly, "you must tell us all about fashion in London, Miss Darcy. I understand you were there during the latter part of the Season."
Georgiana, her eyes wide, stuttered something about lace, and Mrs. Bennet was in alt. Darcy, feeling he would have no part in this conversation, even should he have wished it, and feeling that his sister would be safe now that their hostess was having a grand time answering her own questions, excused himself to find Mr. Bennet.
In the hall he ran into Colonel Fitzwilliam, who elected to visit the library rather than join the conversation on fichus.
"You're here for a hairbrush?" Mr. Bennet said, raising one brow when informed of the reason for the visit. "I didn't know my Lizzy had an interest in those sorts of things."
"All women have an interest in those things," Colonel Fitzwilliam said from where he had undertaken the task of examining a globe. "They are born with the instinct to pretty themselves up."
"Apparently it was a gift from her Aunt Gardiner," Darcy explained. "Silver filigree, with an engraving of a rose on the handle. She said, even beyond the obvious monetary value, it's worth quite a bit to her in sentiment. Do you happen to know where it is?"
Mr. Bennet shrugged. "I hardly know where anything is in this house, including myself, sometimes. You might try asking Mrs. Hill."
A fine suggestion. He tracked the woman down in the kitchen.
"A hairbrush?" Mrs. Hill asked skeptically, wiping her hands on her apron. A group of maids stood in one corner giggling and staring at the tall man who had invaded their realm. "What needs you with a hairbrush, sir?"
"It's my wife's hairbrush. Silver, with the engraving of a rose on the handle."
"Ah," the older woman nodded sagely. "That one. I believe you'll find it in Miss Lydia's old room, sir. First door on the left in the family wing."
Darcy thought it strange that Elizabeth's hairbrush would be in her sister's old room, but considered that, perhaps, what with the way things were often shuffled around in room rearrangements, some of his wife's old things might have been relocated.
It was strange, though, he contemplated as he sifted through the items on and in the dressing table of Lydia's old room, how well lived-in this room looked. As if someone had just fixed the bed this morning, and left the water in the basin, and thrown a pair of slippers on the chair. He avoided looking at a pair of stockings hanging in front of the fireplace and continued to look for the hairbrush.
At last he found it, wedged between the wall and an open jewelry case, and was just about to put it in his jacket pocket when the door opened. He stared in horror as Miss Catherine Bennet, her kid boots in one hand and bare toes peeping out under her skirts, entered. She stared back at him, no less surprised.
"What are you doing in my room, Mr. Darcy?" she demanded. Then she caught sight of the item in his hand. "And why are you stealing my brush?"
"Your room?" Darcy echoed, flabbergasted. "Mrs. Hill said it was your sister Lydia's room."
Kitty shrugged. "It used to be, but since it was larger than mine, I moved in when she left." She narrowed her eyes. "And you still haven't told me why you have my hairbrush."
"Your hairbrush?"
"Yes. In your hand."
Darcy looked down at his hand, which had paused in the motion of putting the brush in his pocket. "Your hairbrush?"
"Yes, Mr. Darcy," Kitty said in some annoyance. "That is my hairbrush."
He shook his head, confused. "No it's not."
She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "Yes, it is."
"No -- it's my wife's hairbrush."
"No," Kitty repeated slowly, "it's mine. Lydia gave it to me after she got married. It was a gift for all my help, she said. I remember it perfectly."
Darcy shook his head. "But that's impossible, unless there are two brushes so wholly identical. Elizabeth described it perfectly -- down to the scratch right here on the bottom." He turned the brush toward Kitty so she could see.
She crossed her arms mulishly. "I don't care what you say. I got that brush from Lydia."
"Yes, well, Lydia has a penchant for taking things that are not hers," Darcy said with a wry grin. He sighed when Kitty frowned more deeply. "But would you mind terribly if we discussed this further somewhere that is not here? I really feel your bedroom is not the proper place."
"Fine," Kitty replied. "Then we'll take it downstairs and ask Mary -- she knows everything, after all. Then you'll see whose brush it is."
Mary blinked her eyes in surprise at the two of them when they presented the hotly contested item to her in the drawing room. "That's my brush," she said.
"Your brush?" Darcy echoed.
"It certainly is not," Kitty said indignantly.
"Well, of course it's my hairbrush," Mary replied, setting her book on the table and taking the heavy thing from Darcy. "You see? I even put this scratch in it when I dropped it on the stairs."
"Then how would Elizabeth have known it was there?" he pointed out.
Mary raised her eyebrows. "Elizabeth said it was hers?" she asked. When Darcy replied that his wife had, indeed, claimed it, her brow furrowed. "Well, that's odd. Because it was Elizabeth who gave it to me."
"But it's mine!" Kitty wailed.
"What is yours?" Mrs. Bennet said, taking an interest in the proceedings on the other side of the room. Georgiana, who had been pigeonholed for the past hour, looked relieved at the interruption. Mrs. Annesley smiled in mild amusement.
"This hairbrush," Mary said, handing the item to her mother. "And it's not Kitty's."
"Of course not," Mrs. Bennet replied calmly. "It's mine."
The uproar this statement caused was instantaneous, but Mrs. Bennet, slightly flustered, merely said, "Well, who else in this house would own something so expensive?"
Darcy rolled his eyes. He looked at his sister, who was watching these goings-on with wide eyes. "What, don't you wish to claim it, Georgie?" he asked her with a dry smile. "This isn't your hairbrush?"
His sister's quiet, "Oh, heavens, no," was drowned out by Mrs. Bennet's shriek of, "Miss Darcy's hairbrush? But why would it have been here, then?"
He gave up and retreated to the library.
"They're a pack of Amazons, aren't they?" Mr. Bennet said without looking up from his book. "Just wait until you have six of them in your home."
Darcy shuddered. "I was hoping for a son."
His father-in-law chuckled and flipped a page. "Yes, well, females run in the family."
"And run the family," Colonel Fitzwilliam offered.
"This really isn't helping," Darcy said stiffly, pushing away from the door that couldn't completely shut out the sound of high-pitched squabbling. He began to pace the room.
Mr. Bennet lowered his book and looked over the rim of his glasses at him. "What did you expect, Mr. Darcy? Did you really think I had any control over this madhouse?"
Darcy acknowledged his hope was somewhat ridiculous. "So you have no ideas?"
"Well, now," Mr. Bennet said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his hands. "I suppose I just hadn't thought about it. The problem is what, now?"
When the situation was explained, he chuckled. "Well, well. You're in quite a fix, Mr. Darcy."
"Don't I know it," Darcy grumbled. "I just need a distraction -- a sudden attack to grab their attention while I claim the hairbrush."
"They call that the Forlorn Hope," Colonel Fitzwilliam said dryly, continuing to sketch in his book. "A group of men brave enough -- or stupid enough -- to run in fighting while the rest of the army prepared the full siege or attacked elsewhere. But you aren't exactly laden with secret weapons, coz, or an army at your back. My advice, as a seasoned soldier, is retreat. I mean, what could you possibly use to stun your enemy long enough to make off with the goods?"
Two pairs of eyes swung towards the colonel, long-limbed and handsome in his scarlet coat, sitting negligently with one leg crossed over the other. As the silence stretched, he looked up at them and gazed from one man to the other as they regarded him steadily. No words were spoken, but Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to sense his fate. His Adam's apple bobbed and a bead of sweat appeared on his brow.
"Mrs. Bennet," Darcy said a few minutes later, leading his reluctant cousin by the arm into the drawing room. "I believe I had neglected, earlier, to introduce to you my cousin."
His hostess was thrown speechless by the military bearing and fine leg of the man who bowed before her. She nearly swooned when informed that, indeed, Colonel Fitzwilliam was the son -- though the younger -- of an earl. She blushed like a schoolgirl when he complimented her home, her fine daughters, and even her own good looks.
Miss Catherine was no less excited, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining as she sat beside him when he was led to a seat on the sofa by the fire, where he could tell them all about his life in the army. She asked a few questions, but otherwise simply gazed at him with dewy eyes and giggled occasionally at his amusing (and patently untrue) stories.
Georgiana sat on his other side, her hands clasped tightly as she shot baleful glances at her cousin, who, knowing his task, flattered the other ladies for all he was worth.
"You are not awestruck by a scarlet coat?" Darcy said quietly to Mary, who had remained by the table, reading her book.
She looked at him, her expression betraying her annoyance at being interrupted. "No, I am not," she replied, her eyes returning to the text. "The trappings of man are fleeting."
Darcy eyed the hairbrush, sitting on the table within reach. He could probably grab the thing and make a dash for it, but it would undoubtedly look very silly, as he'd have to stand by the carriage, waiting for his companions, anyhow.
He decided to play it out, instead, though he had no idea of the interests of this sister he had spoken to perhaps once before. "So, you like books, then?" he asked politely as he sat down on the other side of the table. The hairbrush now rested midway between them.
Again the disgruntled sigh. "No, I've never heard of them," came the dry response. "Tell me, what are they?"
"We have quite a library at Pemberley," he continued. "You would be more than welcome to visit and browse. Several first editions, Greek and Roman classics, new novels." He glanced at the binding of the book she was reading. "Tomes on moral philosophical reasoning."
A hint of guarded interest. "For what in return?"
"The hairbrush."
There was a pause. Mary looked first at the hairbrush, then at Darcy, then at the hairbrush. Her expression didn't change as she returned to her book and said in reply: "What hairbrush?"
"Good girl," Darcy said, slipping the brush into his jacket pocket. He vowed not to notice, when the Bennets did come to visit, if this sister-in-law had a similar broad view of ownership rights. A few missing volumes would be worth the effort saved.
"Well, that's a job well done," Mr. Bennet said as he blew a cloud later that evening as the men were having Port, an experience so long unenjoyed he had almost left the table with the women after dinner.
"By the by," he continued, digging a letter out of his pocket, "you received an express from Pemberley earlier today. I took the leave of sending back a positive reply, as one seemed to be required."
Darcy took the missive from his father-in-law and broke the seal. Reading it through, he groaned. "My tenth labor," he explained to the other two.
His father-in-law chuckled as he read the letter when it was passed from him to the colonel. "Good luck," he said. "You'll need it.
Continued In Next Section