Into Kent (13 page)

“Good lad,” said the older gentleman, taking a healthy swig from his mug. “But, here now, let me understand this Hertfordshire lass of yours; if I understand you, you feel that, while beyond reproach personally, she cannot be considered as marriageable on the basis that her mother is less than desirable?”

“‘Less than desirable’?” Darcy answered back. “A carthorse is ‘less than desirable’ as a hunter—this is asking a pony to jump a grown man over an eight-foot fence.”

“Methinks you might exaggerate, there, old son. But, if I mistake not, your concern is that it would be unwise to bring her blood into your family, yes? —but whatever makes you think that heritability works amongst mankind?”

Surprised, Darcy looked at him questioningly.

“Come, come, boy; how many breeding trials have you seen?”

“Using the modern Dishley methods? Dozens, I should say—possibly hundreds: sheep, horses, dogs, cattle… But husbandry has always been practiced at Pemberley; I have seen notes from my grandfather’s time…”

Pender broke in: “Yes, yes—now, how many of the offspring were actually superior stock? Half? A quarter?”

“Usually less,” Darcy acknowledged.

“And that was where the sire and dam were each carefully selected to produce all the desired traits, was it not?”

“Certainly.”

“Then how do you imagine that mankind, so much richer in nature and complex in behaviour, can be expected to follow the patterns of heredity more closely than farm animals?”

Darcy, startled, stopped to consider. “But our entire society is based on family lines,” he objected. “Heraldry, bloodlines, successions and heirs of the body: how does one overlook that?”

“Darcy, can you truly be that blind?” Darcy again looked at his mentor in surprise. Pender went on: “Can you really imagine for an instant that our beloved King George is the pinnacle of all mankind? Yet the Hanoverian line is one of the most ancient noble lines in Europe. And do but consider for a moment the ruination the Hapsburgs have brought upon themselves—ugliest people in Christendom, and entirely lacking certain of the most fundamental biological functions required to sustain life!”

Darcy was taken aback. “I had never followed that particular line of reasoning,” he admitted. “But it should follow, should not it? If bloodlines are the controlling factor in man’s abilities and accomplishments, then the most carefully conserved bloodlines—like the royal lines—ought to produce the most accomplished persons.”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” Pender said dryly. “But before we wander off into anything that might resemble treason, let us go back to livestock: now, what happens when dogs are bred too closely to their own pedigree?”

“You usually start to see weaknesses in the line: nervy animals, debility in the joints, decreased lifespan—that sort of thing.”

“Precisely. And what does one do when this occurs?”

“One breeds from out of the line to reintroduce strength. It is the most common way to improve the breed…” Darcy’s voice trailed off.

“The light begins to dawn, does it?” Pender asked, sitting back in his chair. “Now, if we speak of larger groups of animals—herds, say—how are they best improved?”

“By introducing superior stock over and over,” Darcy mused, thinking back over the years he had been doing just that, and his father before that, and his father before him…“Over the years the whole herd improves in all manner of ways.”

Pender said nothing further for some moments while Darcy was silent, thinking over what his mentor had said; there was undoubtedly much truth in what he was proposing, but… “What you are suggesting is all well and good, Pender, and I concede that I rather agree, now you have given me the idea, but the fact remains that society is what it is; for me to marry Elizabeth…the lady…would disgrace my family.”

“So your lady has a name, has she? Well, the name at least is a royal one.”

Darcy fixed his friend with an admonitory gaze: if one were to stand in any hamlet in the kingdom and shout the name, it would bring no less than three females of varying ages out of their cottages. “Yes, Vincent, I thank you; terribly helpful.”

“One does one’s best,” said that gentleman with a grin.

“But still,” Darcy went on more seriously, “as I am the head of the Darcy family now, it is particularly incumbent on me to protect the family name.”

“Of course; but are you certain you have properly assessed the damage your marriage to the lady would entail? After all, you would hardly be the first, or the highest in standing, to have married ‘beneath’ him. If the lady has brains enough and bowels, which I am sure she does, I do not think you need worry.”

Darcy wished he could be convinced, but there was, in addition, one other argument that he fought with in his private struggles: “Pender…do you know the tale of King Cophetua and the beggar maid?”

“Of course: he rejects every noble lady in his kingdom only to fall hopelessly in love with a beggar woman, naked and starving, and marries her. Your point being, then, that your Elizabeth is a beggar lady?”

“Hardly,” said Darcy in driest tones. “No—ever since I first heard the story, though, I always felt that the girl must have got pretty short shrift from every one around her, and for the rest of her life.”

Pender tilted his head, considering. “You have a point, there,” he said. “And a sharp, nasty one, I admit.”

“So what should we do, if we were to marry?—go abroad and live like pariahs, or try to face down all of London? My own family would have difficulty countenancing her: what about the rest of “good” society? How might she fare in London? Constantly having to excuse her family and defend herself against snobs, fops, and fools: there would be no end to it.”

“Come, Darcy, it is not as bad as all that; there
are
good-hearted people in Society, you know.”

“Not many, in my experience,” Darcy said bitterly.

“And you know, I
have
met your uncle, the Earl; I can hardly imagine he would snub a girl of your choosing.”

“True—but you have
not
met my Aunt Catherine; she would make our lives as damnable as she could.” Darcy ran down the list again in his mind; Georgiana, Edmund, and likely Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Eleanor—he trusted he might count on their support, but would that be enough to face down all of Society? He could not very well bury Elizabeth in Derbyshire for the rest of her life. There was Charles, of course; and his marriage to Elizabeth would probably lead to another, making them brothers; but that would also mean a near and constant relation with his sisters; and while Miss Bingley would never be disobliging to
him
, what might not she say to Elizabeth when he was absent? As Bingley had said himself, no one was safe from her tongue. He was sure Elizabeth could stand up to her, of course, but how would her connexions fare, with their constant improprieties…?

In spite of his wishes to the contrary, Darcy could not contrive to convince himself: for one thing, his belief in proper behaviour as the only acceptable behaviour was a cornerstone of his existence and a cornerstone of his family’s standing—it was beyond him to disregard it in this matter; for another, he would be offering Elizabeth a poor future, indeed, if all she could look forward to was prejudice and disapprobation. He shook his head despairingly. “No, Pender, I have been through it a thousand times, and I still cannot see it. The Beggar Queen had no one to defend but herself; the lady in question needs no defence—in fact, I pity the man, or the woman, indeed, who could actually stir her to anger—but there
is
no defending her mother, not to mention some of her sisters; and then, my own family…no, it is impossible.” He stared morosely into his nearly empty mug.

Pender looked at his young friend silently for some moments. “So, having arrived at this same conclusion a thousand times, why do you yet ponder the problem?” he asked, not unfeelingly. “Could it be that your heart will not listen to reason? How extraordinary!”

“Do not mock me, I pray you Vincent,” Darcy said unhappily. “I find I cannot jest on this subject.”

“I know, lad…I know,” Pender said with sincere sympathy. “T’were better an’ you could: then there might be hope.”

“How do you mean?”

“Because, as any one who reads Shakespeare knows, comedies end in marriage.” He stood and brought Darcy to his feet, saying, “Come along then, lad; let us home to bed.”

Chapter Sixteen

Darcy spent the next day in college, renewing acquaintance with some of the Fellows he had known when he was up, but aside from two hours wandering dispiritedly through the Bodleian in search of inspiration, he did not pursue the topic which had brought him thither. In his quarters in the afternoon, however, Pender came again to visit, bringing with him a student named William Ackerman; Mr. Ackerman was currently at the top of his class and set to graduate in May. Pender presented him as a very worthy candidate for a position, should Darcy happen to have one, or know of one. After Mr. Ackerman, whom Darcy found a very pleasing young scholar, had left, Pender staid behind for a word with Darcy.

“Well, Darcy, what do you make of the lad?”

“He seems very able—brilliant, in fact. I am sure I can find something for him.”

“Excellent,” Pender beamed. He looked at Darcy a moment. “Truthfully, that was not the only reason I wished for you to meet him.”

Darcy looked the question, and Pender continued: “His history is most illuminating: his parents were drunkards; they died in a spunging house when he was but a child.”

“Indeed? Amazing.”

“Yes. The rector in his parish took pity on the boy and brought him up at his expense. But when he discovered the lad’s abilities—the boy had taught himself to read before going to the rector, and was keeping the parish books at twelve—he contacted us; I found the boy a sponsor, and here we are.”

“A fascinating story, but I had no real need to hear it; his abilities speak for themselves.”

“They do indeed: that is the point, my boy.” Pender looked expectantly at Darcy.

“Ah, another facet of our debate,” said Darcy. “That brilliance is to be made useful, no matter where found.”

The older gentleman shrugged. “Can you deny it? As you said, his abilities speak for themselves—and who would gainsay them?”

“I know, Pender, and I should be the very last person to deny Miss B…Elizabeth’s worth, but still, her connexions…”

“Actually, Darcy, I was thinking about that, as well: a repellent mother-in-law would do wonders for your reputation, you know; as it is, your life is just a little too golden to suit the feelings of most people, and some disobliging relations would make you a much more approachable figure amongst your acquaintance.”

“An embarrassing mother-in-law would
improve
my reputation, is that what you are saying? Fascinating, Pender—truly: a superb and novel thesis. But, at any rate, I am not afraid for
my
reputation; it is the lady I fear for most.”

“So your deepest concern is for how she might fare as your wife? Darcy, do you really think the lady would object to the match on the grounds that she would have a difficult life?” Darcy made no answer; when one looked at it from that angle, it did seem to make less sense.

“Are you certain this has nothing to do with you?” his friend queried. “After all, you, too, would be called on to excuse your choice of wife. You could, when it comes down to it, marry easily enough among our first families: your own family does have high standing and a proud history, and your connexions would enable you to marry wherever you wished.”

“…pride will always be under good regulation.” The words echoed in Darcy’s mind: was he regulating his pride, or was it contrariwise? He found no answer to the question. He said, “Yes, we do have a proud history, and one I am loath to sully.”

“Then why have you not married any of the women who have doubtless crossed your path, or even thrown themselves at you?”

Rather than answer the question, Darcy asked one in return: “Well, what about you, Vincent? Why have you never married?”

“I simply never met the right girl.”

“And I can but answer the same.”

He returned to London early the following day, little better than when he had left it. The trip seemed long: long enough that he had time to add considerably to his tally of the times he tried to come to some resolution of his problem. It must be said that in this endeavour Darcy was not as fully cognizant of his own habits of thought as he wished to believe; the one factor that he consistently failed to account for in all his deliberations and debates was his devotion to logic: it rendered him incapable of accepting
opinions
in support of his own inclination, or the reverse; opinions and convention could not be argued either for or against. What he wanted, what he sought—although he could not realise it—was a logical, well-reasoned argument as to why he
could
not
marry Elizabeth, that he might shred it and prove it wrong; he required a solid, rational position he could defeat in a clear, definitive manner, and be done; as he could find none, he was unable to reach the conclusion he wished, or, indeed, any conclusion at all.

Finally, as he was pulling into Grosvenor Square, Darcy left off his inner soliloquy, and reminded himself of his own advice to Georgiana: even the deepest wounds must heal in time.

Yet there was surely too little time for healing before Georgiana returned home on a Tuesday in the middle of February. Darcy did most diligently try to hide from his sister how low were his spirits, but her customary concern and attention to him made it impossible to keep it from her it completely. She tried not to trouble him with her solicitude, but she was most considerate of his needs: indeed, had she been able, she would have arranged matters so that he would never have had to turn a hand; but Darcy was insistent that she attend to her own cares, and let him sort through his own. With her great respect for him, she did as he bade, but she conspired frequently with Perkins and Mrs. Annesley to determine if they might not be able to do something to ease his days.

Darcy was not blind to this, and, while he appreciated the attempt from his heart, he earnestly endeavoured to persuade her to desist. “I know you mean well, Dearest,” he told her, “but surely you have better uses for your time than to try to cosset and cozen me out of my ill-humours.”

Georgiana smiled gently and told him, “Once, in a letter written by someone on whose opinions I feel I can rely, I was told that one of the most important things a family does is to help its members when they have been ill-treated by the world. I believe the phrase he used was ‘pernicious influences.’ He also said there could be no imposition or obligation from such assistance. So, if you will allow me, I shall continue to be family to you.” Darcy took her hand and kissed it, and no longer sought to resist her efforts to bring him ease. But while she could soothe, she could not cure; his heart continued to wound him, and his thoughts could light on nothing that brought him peace.

To his misfortune, his conversation with Pender had served mostly to bring Elizabeth to mind with even greater frequency, making him all the more sensible of her virtues, and the perfection of her features. He was daily plagued by her absence: never in his life had his mind been so little his own; he had heard of one losing one’s heart, and thought he had understood its meaning; but he now discovered what our best minds and most prolific writers on the subject have conspicuously failed to mention: that losing one’s heart and losing one’s mind were one and the same.

In his deliberations he would take occasional excursions to Bingley and
his
wounded heart. The outings of the two friends had grown fewer as the weeks passed, but Darcy’s sense of duty towards Bingley would as often force him to carry his friend off to some social affair as Bingley’s did for him. Neither of them, however, seemed to benefit much from these diversions, and nothing but his obligations towards his friend would have induced Darcy to engage in any kind of entertainment.

The following is illustrative of their respective moods during this trying period: early in March, Darcy had accepted an invitation for the two of them to attend an evening gathering at Miss Hartsbury’s home; a small ball and cold collation was the sum total of the scheme, but Darcy knew from previous experience that it would be executed in the highest style, and with complete propriety, which appealed to him especially at that time. It is a telling point that the friends decided to walk the short distance from Grosvenor Square to Hill Street, where Miss Hartsbury lived, rather than take the carriage; the weather was fine for the time of year, it is true, but the consideration that privately prompted each was that it would be faster to walk home, than to wait for their carriage to be brought round from the mews, which was small for the neighbourhood and likely to be crowded and slow. They elected to go down South Audley, rather than cut through St. George’s in the dark. As they walked along, neither had a great deal to say; each one, likely, imagining how much more agreeable the evening might be if the lady of his choosing were by his side.

Miss Hartsbury greeted them with her usual effusive energy, and seemed particularly glad of Darcy’s presence; he had not seen her since Delacroix’s party in December.

“Mr. Darcy! And Mr. Bingley! So delighted to see you!” said she, laying a hand on Darcy’s arm after his bow; she drew breath to launch into one of her accustomed fusillades of speech, but brought herself up short as she recalled her duties as hostess. “We shall talk later,” she assured them, and turned her smiles to the next guest.

Later, shortly before the ball was to begin, she came to find them. The two were standing off to one side, as Darcy often did; but Bingley’s presence next to him was a new and rather worrisome development. “Here you are!” Miss Hartsbury cried, coming up to them. “Do you dance? Not you, Mr. Darcy, of course, but Mr. Bingley: can I find you a partner? I am to open the dancing with my uncle. It is to be Sir Roger de Coverly, as we all know it, you know. I like a reel to begin, myself; so lively and amusing: do not you agree?” at this she stopped, beaming at them and blinking.

“Indeed,” Darcy replied. “But you need not trouble yourself; we shall be perfectly all right…”

“No, but please, I insist,” cried Miss Hartsbury.

Darcy, who was suffering particularly that evening from a maudlin distemper that left him wishing to help any one and every one, given he could not help himself, determined within himself that he would see his friend enjoy the evening. He looked out over the company; spying one particularly lovely lady, he gently took Miss Hartsbury’s arm and turned her from Bingley. “Might I ask you to introduce my friend to that young lady?” he said, speaking softly. “She in the pink gown, and pearls.” Miss Hartsbury, seeing to whom he referred, turned instantly and linked her arm though his friend’s; Bingley, surprised at this sudden attack, could not but consent to her carrying him across the room. Darcy watched as the introduction was made, and as his hostess led the couple to the dance floor, placing them just below herself and her uncle.

He continued to watch, and, to his pleasure, he saw Bingley dance with increasing spirit. He also noticed a young gentleman, of undistinguished bearing but an intelligent expression, of an age between Bingley and himself, watching the dance intently. At first Darcy thought the gentleman was watching Bingley and his partner, but came to realise he was, instead, observing their hostess with considerable attention.

At the end of the dance, Bingley remained with his partner, which relieved Darcy’s mind considerably; the more so when, as the musicians struck up for the second, he saw Bingley ask the lady’s hand again. Miss Hartsbury stood to one side as the set was forming, smiling encouragingly to all her friends: Darcy saw the young man he had noted before, move as though in her direction, but his nerve appeared to fail him and he stepped back away. Darcy was then prompted, both out of gratitude to Miss Hartsbury for introducing his friend so obligingly, and out of a sympathetic compassion from having seen his hostess stand out of many dances in the past, to step to her and ask her hand for this one. She accepted delightedly, and with no little surprise; Darcy could not help but see that the young man looked at them both with interest, and something like alarm. As he observed the gentleman’s expression of discontent, he decided to make an attempt to see if there might be cause to help the two young people along, moved by that same peculiar distemper which led him to propose a partner for Bingley.

“Mr. Darcy,” his hostess said happily as they took their places, “you have made my reputation this night! Every one knows how you dislike dancing.”

“My dear Miss Hartsbury,” Darcy demurred, “I must believe that a slight exaggeration: why on Earth would any one know or care whether I like to dance or not?”

“I fear, Sir, you do not do yourself justice; people will notice these things, and if for no other reason, your position assures that you will be remarked upon particularly.”

Darcy smiled ruefully with a deprecating gesture. “I have certainly been made aware that those interested in such things might like to gossip about my activities around Town; but surely only my friends would care about something so trivial as my predilection for dancing, or its reverse.”

“I assure you, Mr. Darcy, that to those among my own sex, dancing is no trivial affair. Who dances with whom, how often, and which dances, occupies a good deal of our energies the day after a dance, you may believe me. You must not think dancing trivial at all, you know; indeed, this dance with you will have given me a material advantage over my friends for the next twelvemonth, at least.”

Darcy laughed, “Well, if that be so, I am delighted that you will have benefitted from our dance to such a degree; for myself, I am content to enjoy it for what it is: a pleasant interlude with my hostess.” Just then the musicians began the dance, and they were forced to break off their conversation for the opening. During the first movements, Darcy caught sight of the same young gentleman looking at him rather apprehensively, reminding him of his intended object for the dance. When next they had a chance to speak, Darcy enquired of his partner, “Miss Hartsbury, may I ask: who is that young man?” he nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “The gentleman seated behind, to your left.”