B006O3T9DG EBOK (44 page)

The Mews

When in town, Mr. Darcy had taken care of several pieces of business. Unsure of her feelings on certain matters, he chose not to share all of his intentions with his wife. He felt right about that judgement after his business was done, for that visit to London was at great cost to his sensibilities. Indeed, it looked to be quite a task to raise his spirits, for they had plummeted to near maudlinness. The only remedy at hand had been to cast out those relentlessly unhappy thoughts through that well-proven destroyer of sentiment—financial affairs.

Mr. Darcy’s money drew a solid five percent—hardly enough to pay the many newly-assessed taxes. With all the rancour against those who sat in power, he was much in want of reassurance that the liquid portion of the family fortune was not in jeopardy. To do so, he reluctantly betook himself to the blessed ‘Change.

When his business was compleat, his solicitor bade him listen to what was perilously close to a lecture upon which streets were safe and which were not. In the midst of this recitation, Darcy replaced his hat, touched the brim, bid him good day, and took his leave. His solicitor followed fast on his heels, offering a plethora of apologies for possibly overstepping his place. Darcy waved him away. He could see the mayhem lapping at the periphery of Mayfair for himself.

Relieved to be free of his solicitor’s vexatious interference, Darcy inspected his watch to see if he still had time to visit the Bingleys. They had been in town a fortnight whilst Bingley visited several physicians seeking just the right potion to cure his long-predicated case of gout. He promised Elizabeth that he would pay them a visit whilst in town. When he was announced, Jane met him on the landing and led him directly to Bingley’s sickbed.

Charles was a sorry sight indeed. It was difficult not feel sorry for him and his misery, whether it was all his fault or not. Propped in bed, he wore a puce chamber robe that was bespattered with wine. One foot was propped up on a pillow. His big toe was wrapped with so much gauze it was the size of a fist. Initially, unwitting that Darcy was there, he continued to moan and, betimes, he swore.

It was poor Jane, however, who was most distressed. She had dithered herself into a rash that swathed her décolletage and ran up the length of her neck. It was swathed with dried lotion and she had a difficult time keeping her nervous hands from worrying it. Still, all Jane’s sympathy was with dear Bingley. Such was her disconcertion, Darcy undertook the office of her consoler.

“There, there,” was all he could say.

With that small an act of sympathy, Jane burst into tears. Bingley moaned.

“My poor Charles,” Jane fretted. “What is there to do? Where is there to go?”

Upon seeing Darcy, Bingley cried out, “My toe! My poor toe! I feel as if I am walking on my eyeballs!”

At this, Jane ran from the room, her face in her hands. (Fortunately, a maid was there to guide her lest she knock herself senseless on the doorpost.) Bingley spied her and held out one helpless hand.

“Poor Jane,” Bingley cried out again. “She cannot bear my suffering.”

“Have pity on your poor wife, Bingley,” Darcy scolded.

Brought to his senses, Bingley begged his apologies. His sincerity was somewhat in question. It was clear he believed himself to be supremely wounded and entirely unaccountable for it. Darcy’s compassion was compromised. He restrained himself from gloating over having forecast the impairment. Bingley was far too wretched. As he continued to howl, Darcy’s vow against rebuking him was strained by Bingley’s self-pity and a strong desire that Jane not be further injured by her husband’s indulgences.

“You have only yourself to blame, Bingley,” Darcy told him at last.

Bingley grimaced.

Dolefully, Darcy asked, “Do you know what physicians call gout?”

Bingley shook his head.

“Rheumatism of a rich man’s toe.”

Miffed, Bingley said, “I am told that only men of pre-eminent intellectual ability contract it.”

Darcy allowed him that fantasy and spoke of it no more. Bingley, however, wanted Darcy’s advice on matters of business, not recuperation.

“Your mines, Darcy,” he gasped. “Whereby did you divest yourself of your mines? What agent did you employ?”

Surprised at Bingley’s sudden lucidity (and unusual interest in his own business affairs), Darcy took a moment before answering. He had not sold his mines. Unwilling to bear the blight on his land and its general inhumanity at large, Darcy had simply closed them down. He told Bingley that.

“I did not sell them, I had them closed. It was my duty to find work elsewhere for the miners.”

Having had high hopes for a profitable way to dispose of the mines and their blessed ponies (and thereby restore his wife’s happiness on their behalf), this was not good news—especially for a man already taken down by a very painful toe.

Said he, “My present agent says that they are quite profitable and I should keep them. Perhaps goats could pull the coal waggons.”

“I would rather do with a thousand less a year, Bingley,” Darcy said.

“Well, you can say that as you have many more thousands a year than do I.”

Darcy understood Bingley’s finances better than he did and was not taken in by his uncharacteristic fit of petulance. Bingley was not the richest man in England, but he was solvent. That was more than many a gentleman could say.

“Be well, my friend,” Darcy said as he rose to go. “I suggest you sell the mines. Have a clear conscience and an appeased wife. You owe her that.”

“I must have you stay for supper....” Bingley said.

Darcy advised, “You best take your rest whilst your children are not here to play on your bed.”

Seeing the wisdom of that, Bingley offered himself up to sleep. Darcy crept from the room and met Jane, now composed.

“He shall recover soon,” Darcy assured her. For Jane’s sake, he was much in want of believing it.

Few men weather infirmity with any part of good humour. When his hearing had been all but absent, Darcy knew that he had been unforgivably petulant. He could not think of his misbehaviour without abhorrence.

He asked, “What does the physician claim will cure gout other than time itself?”

Jane said, “He told Charles that no one who lived upon sixpence a day ever contracted gout.”

“That is an easy remedy,” he assured her. “Deny him wine and meat.”

She promised, “He shall live on bread and tea until his toe improves.”

It occurred to Darcy that Jane might be in want Elizabeth’s assistance with Bingley.

As if reading his thoughts, Jane placed a restraining hand on his forearm, saying, “Do not speak of this to Lizzy. I shan’t want her to see Charles in his unfortunate condition.”

He agreed to her wishes.

Then she said, “Charles must get well. We must return to the country. Town is becoming untenable. Mrs. Aubrey lives just across the way. Her servants were attacked merely because they were situated with someone of station. It is said that no one is safe. I believe it is so. It is almost dark, Mr. Darcy. You must be wary.”

This time, words of warning were accepted with the same generosity that they were given. They were not necessarily well-taken. Darcy was more concerned over what would befall them down the road, not around the corner. Moreover, if Bingley could not be a good owner, Darcy hoped that he would sell his mines to someone who would. Bingley was a good man, but simply too hasty to be a good overseer.

Another fear bothered Darcy. Had he his wishes, Bingley would be lucid enough to be cautioned about his loose tongue. Bingley was given to conversing with strangers with compleat abandon. Jane was correct. Contingents of finger-pointers filled the streets seeking an excuse to accuse someone of treason. Even soft-spoken Georgiana was at risk. She was far too vocal in criticising the mines and the ponies. When he returned, he would speak to her about her openness. There was insurrection about and the streets abounded with louts who would not think twice about assailing a lady (and the horse drawing her carriage).

There was no doubt that gangs of men wandered the streets just looking to throttle a gentleman or two (some for the principle of it, others for the valuables they carried). By the time he left the Bingleys, the streets were fast becoming deserted by coaches bearing crests and carriages carrying persons of rank. Used to going where he liked, he did not exercise caution himself. Fortunately, he travelled from Bingley’s house in Belgrave to his own house in Mayfair without incident. When he reached his stables, he might have given a small sigh of relief. If he did, it was inaudible to the stable boy who took his reins. For the boy took the horse and disappeared with great dispatch into the stable. The mount was in need of a good rubdown. Thinking that was an admirable end of the day for man or beast, Darcy walked towards his house.

It was upon the approach through the garden that he noticed someone stood just inside the property fence. He had a choice to either to face the intruder or make for the back steps. It was not in his nature to run—even when it might be prudent. An improvident act or not, he knew no other way to respond than to confront that which threatened him.

As he waited for the figure to make a move, he stood his full height.

A voice range out. In the night air, sound carried quite clearly.

“
Mon cheri
, I have waited for hours.”

Chapter 60

Disharmony All Around

When the Darcys at last reached Chiltern, darkness had fallen.

The conversation in the coach thither from the site of the mishap had been stilted. That lack of cordiality did not influence him to renege on his promise to Jane that he would not tell Elizabeth of her situation. In all good conscience, he could not keep such information to himself. He told her of the severity of Bingley’s gout and Jane’s insistence that Elizabeth not come. Still, Elizabeth agreed that he had been right to tell her—even if it was against Jane’s wishes.

Said she, “After all, one must weigh the importance of the information. One has a duty to honesty. Although Jane does not want to trouble me, I can at the very least offer them my prayers—and be prepared should the situation alter.”

The coach then drew to a stop, thus disallowing Darcy the opportunity to be as forthcoming about the rest of his time in town. He peered out the window. Even in the gloom of night he was not happy with what he saw (as he had decided to despise the lodgings sight unseen, this was of no great surprise). Looking about, he very-nearly sneered.

His voice pinched with hauteur, he asked his wife, “What, pray, is the name of this inn you have taken? Is it not the ‘Gutted Goat’ or some sort?”

Quite witting of his impertinent tone, she answered him with exaggerated pleasantness.

“There is indeed an inn nearby called the ‘The Drunken Goose.’ Our lodgings, however, are at the Chiltern Inn.”

The establishments were quit dissimilar. The ‘Goose’ was no more than a haven for inebriates. The Chiltern Inn was quite respectable. The distinction of hosting such illustrious personages had left the innkeeper breathless with anticipation. Knowing of the many needs of the rich, he had cleared the place of other guests and meant to glean the surrounding countryside for a bevy of milkmaids and farm hands to serve them. As it happened, whatever extra help the innkeeper might have forgathered had been at the site of the overturned coach. Their absence was well and good. The Darcys own servants took over the place with great efficiency.