B006O3T9DG EBOK (4 page)

“How could we have misplaced our trust so willingly?” she exclaimed. “Why would a man risk his position for so little? This is was all quite vexing.”

That was what worried Darcy too. He did not say that. He spoke to reassure them both.

“I am reminded of the story of the man who killed the goose that laid the golden eggs.”

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “In this tale, are we the goose or the eggs?”

Other that that drollery, she did not mention Smeads again. As did her husband, she believed it was well and good that the wretch was gone. Darcy saw it as one more distasteful matter to put behind them. Wickham would be apprehended and Smeads would find his own level in town. Whatever satisfaction he might have gotten by having Smeads depart at the point of his sword, he was content to consign such vengeance to his imagination. He would happily leave London and its rats to London. He was satisfied to abide at Pemberley in the bosom of his family for the rest of his days.

Although not readily apparent, happier times were at hand.

Chapter 6

Open Arms

Understandably, Bingley’s nerves had been in quite a state after his forced retrenchment. Indeed, he had not wanted to remain at Belgrave Square at all. No small thanks to Darcy, he still had a country estate.

In arranging the settlement of his debts, it had been worked out that he would exchange estates with Henry Howgrave—giving that man a seat in Parliament and Bingley a step up and out of his financial morass. Rather than dwell upon the unpleasant recollection of being stripped naked by a hoard of angry creditors, he threw himself into the enormous task of moving his family, bag and baggage, scrip and scripage, from Kirkland Hall to Howgrave Manor. That project came to pass with all the chaos, hubbub, and ado that only their singular household could generate. The Bingley children stayed with the Darcys much of this time. Despite their cherubic aspects, the Bingley children were two parts hellion—with a penchant for making signs of derision at each other behind the notice of adults. When at last they were returned to their own beds, everyone toasted the move.

Darcy pronounced, “Five miles of good road is a perfect distance to make the Bingleys excellent neighbours.”

Aflutter with excitement, Jane told Elizabeth, “Mr. Darcy told Charles that it is not Howgrave Manor at all. It was called that only of late. When it was built it was known as Deering Lodge.”

Although Jane was wholly unaware of it, Mr. Darcy was very-nearly as pleased to have learnt that information as had she. He liked the Howgrave name no better than the man—and he despised the man. Speaking Howgrave’s name regularly would have been a test. Elizabeth shared in her sister’s pleasure, for she disliked Howgrave as well. This was in part because Darcy did, but also because Howgrave had contrived to court Georgiana without Darcy’s approval.

“I do hope returning the manor to its historical appellation does in no way offend Sir Howgrave,” Jane worried.

Elizabeth reminded her sister, “I am most certain that if he does not care for the alteration, he is quite free to call Kirkland Hall any name he chooses.”

As everyone else was satisfied with the move, Mrs. Bennet was much in want of someone to scold for it. She decided to find it unfitting to go about renaming ancient homes (and did not care for her opinion to be controverted by the facts involved). In fortune, Mrs. Bennet was unable to deliver her reprimands to Jane in person. She penned missives whilst in repose beneath a stately tree in the park next to Longbourn as the illustrious painter Sir Robert Morland took her likeness. (Indeed, Mr. Darcy’s particular instructions to that man had included the proviso that should Morland find himself unable to hurry the portrait; he would be well-rewarded.) Mrs. Bennet had complained of the painter and his habits unceasingly whilst he was ensconced at Pemberley at work on the Darcy commission. However, she minded her tongue when her likeness was at stake.

As he disliked the general lack of elegance of Longbourn and its cramped rooms, Morland took that as good an excuse as any to take lodgings elsewhere. No one, from Hertfordshire to Derbyshire, was heard to blame him.

With that one obstacle to family felicity settled, the Darcys were happy to take each new modification to their number as they came.

The most astonishing came from a most unlikely source.

To the surprise of all, Georgiana had returned from her unexpected confinement at Rosings Park bearing two newborns rather than the one. They were cousins born but days apart. One baby girl was born to the Colonel Fitzwilliams; the other was the child of the late Lady Anne. (In fortune, Beecher had not kept his threat to name his motherless daughter after Elizabeth—that had been another ludicrous ploy.)

As often bechanced, the baby had been called after her grandmother. Her name was Catherine, but they called her Cathy. Both girls would become lovely little toddlers and good playmates for Janie.

Georgiana’s rescue of Anne’s baby from the cold halls of Rosings seemed to be an equitable ending to that sad event. To those who knew her as a woman demanding to supervise the lives of all those about her (exempting neither kith nor kin), obtaining Lady Catherine’s approval of such a scheme had seemed unfathomable.

When told that her ladyship had, indeed, acquiesced to her granddaughter’s relocation, no one was more astonished than Elizabeth. (Darcy may have been astonished, but it pleased him to believe that all was well.) She was not so certain. There had never been a detail too small for Lady Catherine’s supervision. She gave irrefutable judgements on the clothes others wore, the feathers in their hats, the food they ate, and how many times they chewed it. Indeed, her influence was not limited to her own manor. Cottagers could not have a quarrel over a garden spot without her entering an opinion on the matter.

“Your aunt’s finger is in everyone’s pie,” Elizabeth groused.

She caught herself before she said more. Even in the privacy of their parlour, it was unseemly to speak of her husband’s relation in a spiteful manner (no matter how true it was). She took a deep breath and a less strident tone. (Hers was not to hold her peace, just mind how she spoke it.)

She said, “I find it quite inconceivable that Lady Catherine would leave her only granddaughter in want of her guidance.”

“You fancy that mere miles shall keep her at bay?” he asked drolly.

Raising an eyebrow, she agreed his point was well taken.

All Elizabeth’s motherly instincts were aroused at the notion of Lady Catherine within fifty miles of her children. Georgiana’s kindness put Elizabeth in the questionable position of disapproving of what was nothing less than rescue. Yet, she knew she had good reason to beware. During their bereavement visit to Rosings Park, Lady Catherine had cornered her in the nursery. She had been invited there ostensibly to admire Anne’s motherless child. Instead, she engaged her in a conversation that, although cloaked with an air of cordiality, was nothing less than an ambush.

Initially, Elizabeth believed the poor woman was overwrought by grief. With Beecher leering at her elbow, her ladyship had attempted to employ sympathy over her daughter’s passing as a means to her own ends by coaxing Elizabeth into promising her son, Geoff, to Anne’s newborn daughter. Confounded and profoundly dismayed, Elizabeth had taken her leave from Rosings Park with Lady Catherine’s plot still ringing in her ears.

Perhaps it had merely been the act of a mother desperately desiring assurance of her granddaughter’s happiness. Something about the eerie doings made her believe another, more sinister plot was in the works. Nonetheless, Christian charity demanded that grief not be reproved. Any mother’s heart would be wounded to the quick by their child’s death. Each mourned in their own way. Lady Catherine’s may have been to repair to the most profound aspect of her character—that of harrying her relation.

As it happened, there was even more to that story.

Not satisfied just to rescue Anne’s daughter, Georgiana also spirited away poor Mrs. Jenkinson. Her ladyship’s unkindness to her after Anne’s death was the talk of the back stairs. (Anne had a penchant for lurid novels and when they were found after her passing, Lady Catherine blamed Mrs. Jenkinson). Upon learning that Anne’s beloved companion had been banished from the house, Georgiana felt compelled to take her with them too. She and Fitzwilliam hid her away in their coach as they took their leave of Kent, knowing at any moment their deception could be found out. It was all quite stirring to Georgiana. Fitzwilliam, the war veteran, was beside himself with anxiety. No wrath burned hotter than his aunt’s and he preferred not to have his hindquarters scorched by her ire. Georgiana, however, was not contrite.

“What was I to do?” she shrugged. “Mrs. Jenkinson was so heartbroken. I could think of nothing but my dear Mrs. Annesley. Such devotion is to be
rewarded.”

Mrs. Jenkinson was to live the years left to her happily overlooking Anne’s daughter at Whitemore. Still, Elizabeth knew Lady Catherine did nothing for sentiment’s sake. Tucking her granddaughter away with Georgiana also kept her out of Sir Winton Beecher’s sway. One thing Elizabeth knew to be true, the child was much more apt to find loving care in Georgiana’s arms than any at Rosings Park.

Who could deny any child that?

Chapter 7

The Guests

As soon as the Bingleys compleated their move to the neighbourhood, the Darcys had planned to honour them with a ball at Pemberley. It took above two years for them to relocate. It was no surprise that other events engulfed them.

———

Upon learning that his wife was again with child, Darcy was quite adamant that they should postpone the event forthwith. Elizabeth would not hear of it. Unused to his edicts being countermanded, he was less than pleased when his wife did just that.

“I fancy we shall not abandon our plans,” she said merrily. “Soaked though I am with nature’s fecund blessing, I confess that I should like to dance with my husband one more time ere I become too unduly corpulent to be moved about the dance floor with any part of grace.”

Mr. Darcy looked at his wife carefully. For a woman of even temper, her moods had been unusually mercurial. It had been his study that when in doubt, it was often wiser to remain silent. Nonetheless, he spoke his mind.

“Allow us to come to an understanding,” he said. “I shall take you in my arms just as willingly when you are great with child.”

Accepting the reaffirmation, she gave him an appreciative curtsy.

He continued, “I do not find emaciation attractive. Ladies who are excessively thin remind me of spiders.”

As he spoke, he gave a slight shudder.

Upon occasion, his compliments could be somewhat clumsy (just as often, they were sublime). This one was so genuine that she was highly diverted.

“In fortune, I am sturdy as a milkmaid,” she told him. “No doubt I shall grow evermore stout with each passing year. If you are as true to your word as I know you are, I am to be assured of your love thenceforward.”

Taking her in his arms, he told her in all seriousness, “I care not if you grow thin as Lady Caroline Lamb. So long as there is enough flesh for me to hold you near me, I shall be content.”

The spell, which had been cast over her so delightfully, was broken when the seamstress was announced. Stealing a hasty kiss, she bid him adieu to face the most evil of all taskmasters—the measuring tape.

Her husband’s speculation in regards to her fluctuating moods was undeniable. She never quite caught him at it, but she had been certain for some time he kept track of her womanly cycle more closely than did she, for he anticipated her in ways that astounded her. Of particular enjoyment was the small spray of flowers that would appear upon her dressing table a day or two before she could expect to become a tad peevish. She knew they were from his hand because they were crudely arranged—and thus all the more treasured.