Darcy & Elizabeth (47 page)

As summer's heat was at its peak, they must take their leave with all due haste.

Love's Labours

Are they all horrid?” asked Mrs. Jenkinson incredulously. “Are you quite certain that they are
all
horrid?”

A question, however innocently proffered, was no less an act of insubordination to Lady Catherine de Bourgh than a slap across the face. Her countenance registered that displeasure without any sympathy for her late daughter's companion whatsoever.

“Gothic novels, Mrs. Jenkinson? They are, every one, horrid and base!” she bellowed. “And in my daughter's possession! The stupidity with which you are favoured by nature, Mrs. Jenkinson, knows no bounds!”

Forthwith of Lady Anne's demise, Lady Catherine had ordered her bedchamber stripped to the walls of every trinket or memento of her daughter's having lived there. Hence, the offensive literature had been uncovered within hours of Anne's death. A chamber-maid had discovered Anne's private store of reading materials and dutifully delivered them to Mrs. Jenkinson, who had been charged with overseeing the project. Stricken with grief, such an act of finality as she had been engaged in was not to her liking. The single merit she saw in it was that it kept her from Lady Catherine's attention. Hence, this unearthing was most unwelcome. But she did what duty demanded and scurried to her mistress, the most well used of the lurid books in hand as evidence.

“I paid you good money to watch over my daughter, and to what end, I ask you?” She continued her diatribe, “I should have you repay me every penny!”

The novella her ladyship held in her hand (and periodically cast to the floor and stomped upon) was
The Mysteries of Udolpho
. The dog-eared pages were testament that it had been a favourite. Therefore it was the ideal volume to endure Lady Catherine's outrage.

One of Lady Catherine's finest skills was to identify personal weaknesses. She could sight the person who was most susceptible to a brow-beating with all the clarity of a fox after a hare. The laying of guilt was her special gift. Mrs. Jenkinson was both heartbroken over Anne's death and aware that her own existence was in jeopardy as well. Her very life depended upon gaining another position. That would fall solely upon a recommendation from her employer. Therefore, so far as vulnerability went, the poor woman may as well have had a sign reading “sitting duck” hanging about her neck. To Mrs. Jenkinson's further misfortune, when Lady Catherine smelled weakness, she did not relent until blood was drawn. She wailed away until her victims were beaten prostrate. Having spent the better part of a decade under her rule, Mrs. Jenkinson had never been a match for her employer. Now, at her weakest, she merely served as a receptacle for Lady Catherine's bereavement-driven wrath.

Lady Catherine was then halfway through a stack of black-trimmed mourning announcements, and did not much want to be interrupted. There were any number of details to which she must attend, but making arrangements for the care of her granddaughter was not amongst them. Prior to Anne's lying in, a wet-nurse and baby-nurse had been employed and taken residence in a room within the upper reaches of the house. The baby's care had not altered whatsoever with her mother's death. Lady Catherine had gone so far as to have the baby unwrapped for her to count her fingers and toes. The only sentiment she showed had been to lean forward and mindlessly kiss the baby's forehead before waving her away.

All who witnessed Lady Catherine's actions that sad day were properly appalled at her lack of tender feelings. All of her servants feared her ladyship. A few even harboured a measure of respect. Most, however, despised her as imperious and dictatorial. Yewdell knew Lady Catherine more intimately, by his reckoning, than any other member of staff—and most probably her family as well. He alone witnessed what others did not. She was undeniably authoritative, her air was not conciliatory, and she admired nothing more than the distinction of rank. But she was not as unfeeling as she wanted others to suppose.

When Mrs. Jenkinson had come shuffling before her bearing testament to her daughter's disobedience, dishonour, and compleat lack of discernment, she flew into an aggrieved snit, lashing out at the nearest object. As it was unacceptable for a daughter of hers to have been guilty of such offences, it was necessary for her ladyship to lay the blame upon someone else. Unfortunately, Mrs. Jenkinson did not have the forethought to take her leave with any haste and it fell to her spindly shoulders to bear the brunt of Lady Catherine's considerable displeasure. It was a pitiless, one-sided row. Lady Catherine was relentless in her censure, all but convincing poor Mrs. Jenkinson that it was by her hands that Lady Anne had gone to her eternal reward. Lady Catherine's premise was that the tremblings and vibrations that books of a lurid nature wrought upon the innocent hearts of their readers caused injury to her daughter's weakened chest, thus causing her to be unable to withstand childbirth.

“It is a clear case of injury through omission!” Lady Catherine squawked, adding for good measure (lest the poor woman was not taken compleatly amort), “You, woman, could not have driven my daughter to her grave any more certainly than had you pressed a pillow across her face and smothered her yourself!”

With that last harangue, Mrs. Jenkinson stopt wringing her pocket-square, pressed it to her mouth to stifle a wail, and ran from the room. Yewdell dutifully opened the door for her to make her passage and just as dutifully closed it behind her. Because of Yewdell's vigilance, Lady Catherine's last bit of diatribe failed to follow the hysterical woman up the staircase. Hence she was spared the denunciation of “Murderer! Heartless murderer!” that rang out upon her fast-retreating footfalls.

There was not a person in the service of Rosings Park who remained uninformed of their employer's attack upon the heart-broken Mrs. Jenkinson. Disgruntlement, which had kept its head prudently low, began to behave more blatantly, yet no one was disposed actually to rebel. Times were far too unsteady for anyone to mutiny. Lady Catherine did not pay her staff well, but she paid them regularly (save for her personal maid who in lieu of pay often had to take her ladyship's cast-off apparel), and few were inclined to risk their positions to take the part of one old woman. After taking stock of their options, most were inclined to think kindly of their own necks and meanly of Mrs. Jenkinson's.

As usual, Yewdell kept his own counsel on the matter. He neither aligned himself with the grumblers nor defended Lady Catherine. Properly, his main concern remained his feet. The slippers that her ladyship had demanded he wear never became more comfortable. He had returned to wearing his old ones, but Lady Catherine had pronounced them unacceptable. They had been at loggerheads on the subject and he had worn a pair of clogs just to inflame her. Now, of course, he had reverted once again to the torturing pair for appearance's sake. Lady Catherine would disapprove if his looks were less than exemplary when the family gathered.

***

Into this testy atmosphere the Darcy branch of the de Bourgh family arrived at Rosings Park. Darcy and Elizabeth had taken leave of their children for the first time and both were uneasy, although they exhibited this disquiet in decidedly opposing methods. Elizabeth talked far too indiscriminately and Darcy would not speak two words together. Their single uniformity was that neither spoke a word of their children. This oddity was not lost upon Georgiana, and she smiled knowingly.

That she rode with them upon their pilgrimage to pay their respects to their cousin was the culmination of a great deal of argument. This, not because her company was undesirable, but because she was great with child.

Indeed, she had insisted upon travelling there against the advice of everyone. Fitzwilliam had threatened to physically restrain her, but that threat was met with little more success than any other dictum Colonel Fitzwilliam issued to his delicate wife. With her uniquely demure demeanour, she flatly overruled him. He shrugged his shoulders in a manner suggesting one who had given it his all but had been defeated by superior forces. Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth had fared better with their arguments. Elizabeth had gone so far as to relate to Georgiana her personally experienced travails of childbirth upon the road. In wanting to persuade Georgiana, Elizabeth had employed considerable hyperbole. Regrettably, it had little effect upon anyone save her husband. It soon came to her attention that Darcy had turned an ominous shade of grey. She retracted those descriptions with all due haste, but the damage had been done to his sensibilities.

He appeared to be unable to look squarely upon her countenance.

The discomfiture that observation wrought upon her did not leave her until long after they arrived in Kent.

The Gathering

“What dreadfully hot weather this week,” said Lady Catherine, flapping her fan. “I fear it keeps me in a continual state of derangement.”

No member of her company dared to contradict that statement, most certainly not Darcy and Elizabeth. Elizabeth had been jumpy as a cat since their arrival; Darcy was merely glum. Her ladyship's deportment upon the occasion of the interment of her daughter's corpse had been curious indeed, and did little to improve their humour. They had been altogether uncertain in what temper they would find her. Anger, melancholy—anything seemed a possibility save the one that greeted them. For Lady Catherine sat in her favourite high-backed chair, directing servants upon their rounds of offering refreshments. (It was an unfortunate irony that chair was the very same one she had awaited that which occasioned this sad gathering.) At that moment, her most pressing interest was for her guests to know what lengths her hospitality knew.

“Do enjoy your sorbets,” she admonished. “It will be the last ice we see this year.”

With every exultation to her guests, Henry the parrot squawked. Lady Catherine sat in her usual majesty, ignoring the fact that every time he did, her guests cringed. She had dressed in half-mourning lo these many years since Sir Lewis's passing, hence the lustreless black bombazine of her dress was no great departure from her usual attire. Henry the macaw's garish feathers were at odds with the nature of the gathering. The only clue that there was anything amiss for Lady Catherine herself was that the old-fashioned powdered wig she wore was exceedingly ill-kempt (looking for all the world as if a unsheared ewe had curled upon her head and lately died). Her costume and toilette never quite recovered from the disappointment she had experienced some half-dozen years before when her favourite nephew threw over her daughter and aligned himself with that Miss Bennet. So deeply was she bothered, she had seldom found reason to entertain. Indeed, having fallen into a decided funk, she all but withdrew both herself and her daughter from society. Upon those few occasions when invitations were issued from Rosings, the primary purpose had not been to entertain. It was to offer opportunity to those of her neighbours who desired her condescension and the privilege of laying themselves before her prostrate with obsequiousness. Anne, however, was so seldom in good health that she frequented those events but little. Those of less sympathetic leanings standing patiently in the foyer for the viewing noted that this was the first social gathering that Anne had graced in some time—and glanced with a snigger at her flower-draped body laid out for inspection.

“These ices are the last we can look forward to this season,” her ladyship repeated, still fanning herself, “so you must partake.”

She flicked her fan closed and rapped the wrist of a man sitting to her right. His collar and plain black suit identified him as clergy (had the carefully arranged dolefulness of his countenance not). He had introduced himself to the Darcys immediately upon their arrival. In the few minutes they conversed with him, it was apparent that Lady Catherine had done the remarkable in finding a vicar suitably unctuous to fill Mr. William Collins's shoes. The gentleman did not actually resemble Mr. Collins in any way but by his grave, stately air and formal manners. He walked in a hunched, prissy manner as if suffering a case of the piles. He looked to be no more than thirty but had a small paunch. The arrangement of his hair was a bit too studied to reckon the modesty of his occupation served. His most prominent feature, however, was his sense of self-importance—rivalled only by his veneration for his patron. He had introduced himself as “Mr. William Henry Pratt, faithful servant of God, dedicated educator of Hunsford Parish, and grateful vicar under the condescension of the illustrious Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

“It is a sad, sad day for Rosings Park, the County of Kent, and His Majesty the King that we have to lay to rest a true flower of England such as Lady Anne de Bourgh,” he announced. “I have taken pen to page and written, I flatter myself, a sermon to compliment Lady Anne's memory with the utmost compassion, thereby offering her dear mother succour to her wounded breast.”

No doubt he had repeated that same speech to each and every ear at Rosings Park. That Lady Catherine kept Mr. Pratt at her elbow suggested he had rendered it unto her more than once as well.

Even before she gifted the vicar with a rap as a reminder to partake of his sorbet, few dared refuse Lady Catherine's demand. Her demeanour, under the circumstances, was so peculiar it had instigated hushed whispers. Although it was her stated office, she did not behave as if bereft. Indeed, had one been unapprised of the circumstances of the gathering, it would have been supposed that she was the hostess of an afternoon tea. She accepted condolences, but did not speak of her daughter's demise directly. That was a difficult thing to do, as Lady Anne's mortal remains, cautionary plate of salt sitting upon her thin, dead bosom, was displayed directly opposite her. It sat in the broad doorway, a velvet rope between the coffin and the path designated for tenants and neighbours to pass by to pay their respects. Lady Catherine was happy, however, to expound upon the clamour emanating from the doors that opened onto a grand promenade. As she explained them, her plans were for what could only be described as a shrine.

Indeed, in the distance was the insistent sound of stonemasons' hammers as they chinked gouges from an enormous slab of Italian marble that lay incongruously upon the manicured lawn. That marble was meant for a twelve-foot sarcophagus that was to adorn Lady Anne's coffin. Another even larger piece of pink marble was then being unloaded, giving Lady Catherine the great pleasure of describing the levers and pulleys necessary to so. This monstrosity bore the tell-tale traces of delicate grey veining, which announced its rarity. This piece, she explained, was to be sculpted into Grecian pillars upon which crouching male figures' upturned hands would support the four corners of the mausoleum. Each of the four edges of the cornice would be adorned with a frieze depicting the seasons. The only decision left was for her to determine which of the scriptures would be engraved beneath Anne's name. That would be transposed upon a replica of a scroll to be held by the figure of a six-winged seraph with bas-relief cherubs tugging at its skirts. Whilst a number amongst her company gave the appropriate sighs of admiration, not all were awestruck. The haste that must have been employed to have the marble and men already hard at work only two days after Anne's death passed unremarked.

“Who does she suppose she is burying, the bloody Earl of Carlisle?” grumbled Fitzwilliam under his breath to Darcy. “She could better have spent her time getting the body underground than arranging all this folderol!”

It was true. Those who were witting of the ravages the heat wrought upon a corpse also knew that the grimace that was beginning to plague Anne's pale face did not stem from a lack of peace made with God.

He immediately was regretful of his remark, for he looked about to discover that he stood directly to the left of Lady Anne's widower, recognising that gentleman by his short stature and elaborate mourning attire. He nudged Darcy and flicked his head in Beecher's direction. Beecher then moved with amazing grace across the room to his mother-in-law's side. A bit of a smirk upon his countenance, he took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. She glanced at him as he did so, but gave him little more notice as she was still enraptured by her architectural creation.

Observing Beecher's mincing walk and fawning ways, Fitzwilliam forgot all regret upon his behalf, whispering to Darcy, “Still the veritable tulip, I see.”

“I see he suffers his loss well,” replied Darcy. “I have never seen a finer waistcoat sported by one bereaved.”

Whilst consoling his mother-in-law, Beecher's eyes darted about, appraising the comforters who had gathered in Lady Catherine's large parlour. His eyes stopt abruptly, having caught sight of the handsome tailoring and, if he wasn't mistaken, equally exquisite boots, belonging to Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Having previously had the pleasure of making their acquaintance, Lord Beecher moved before them, bowing majestically.

Before Beecher could utter a sound, Darcy anticipated him, saying, “I am very sorry for your present sorrow.”

Seemingly taken aback, Beecher muttered, “Yes, yes. I thank you for your kind words. We are very much in grief.”

Fitzwilliam echoed Darcy's sentiments and Beecher complimented his concern as well, nodding in Georgiana's direction, he added, “I pray your expected event will end more happily than ours.”

Fitzwilliam was altogether aghast and thus rendered speechless. To have alluded to Georgiana's condition was unspeakably indecorous. Neither was he particularly pleased to have pointed out the obvious danger that they faced. Had he looked in Darcy's direction, he would have seen that countenance was remarkably similar. As was Darcy's nature, he met indecorousness with extreme formality. He bowed curtly, turned his back, and strode away, leaving Fitzwilliam to contend with Beecher's unseemliness alone. Fitzwilliam knew Beecher had spent time in the West Indies. It had been his observation that after time in warmer climes, it was sometimes difficult to reacquaint oneself with the niceties of society. He chose to believe this indignity and his previous familiarity in addressing Georgiana fell to his being an unseasoned traveller rather than to overt crudeness. Certainly his aunt would not have allowed Lady Anne to have married other than a gentleman. He endeavoured to put those affronts behind him and offer some helpful advice.

“I fear,” he said tightly, “your sojourn in the West Indies has made you forget yourself. Society in England is unused to such frankness.”

“Of course, can you ever forgive such rudeness?” Beecher said. “This sadness has been very trying. I scarcely know what nonsense finds its way out of my mouth. I meant no disrespect.”

His words were humble, but his expression remained somewhat haughty. Still, Fitzwilliam was not the sort to hold mere words against another gentleman. He had witnessed far worse injury inflicted by his fellow man. He was happy to believe Beecher a victim of something recognisable to him rather than a compleat boor—a condition for which he had no explanation. Yet Fitzwilliam had limits upon what ill traits he would accept from another. Beecher was obviously a dandy, but Fitzwilliam had felt pity for Anne all her life and had hoped that his poor cousin at least had been honourably settled for a small portion of her life. Darcy, he knew, held no such hope, privately pronouncing Beecher a fortune-hunter.

Believing himself to have won Fitzwilliam's sympathy, Beecher took him by the arm and steered him from the others, immediately launching upon a story to test that kindness. It involved Fitzwilliam's least favourite subject, but one the unsuspecting Beecher thought a soldier of the Crown would enjoy.

“Are you, Colonel, one of those soldiers who considered Napoleon's disturbing the peace of the Continent as a personal kindness?” he laughed. “Whatever shall you do with yourself now that Wellington has given us peace?”

Fitzwilliam was not unused to such abuse, and he answered mildly, “Once one has witnessed war, there is nothing quite so dear as peace.”

Darcy then approached Fitzwilliam, touching him upon the elbow, “Forgive my interruption, Fitzwilliam. You are needed.”

He nodded his head in the direction of Georgiana, who was sitting upon a settee at the far end of the room. Elizabeth was fanning her. She did not look entirely well and Fitzwilliam nodded curtly to Beecher and hurried to her. Beecher smiled at his hastening and sauntered up to Darcy.

“The colonel is a very dutiful husband,” Beecher sighed. “What is it they say of courtship and marriage, Darcy?”

Darcy stood mute.

Smiling amiably, he answered his own question, “Courtship to marriage—a very witty prologue to a very dull play.”

That was not a theory to which Darcy subscribed. Despite his disinclination to converse with such a man, he could not help but retort, “There are occasions when I have known that to be true. Perhaps it is thus when the match is insincere.”

If Beecher believed that observation was directed towards him, he did not display umbrage. He did, however, defend his marriage, not scrupling to employ his dead wife's name.

“I am happy to share with you that your cousin Anne often told me that she had loved me from first we met.”

“In cases such as these, I must take leave to observe that there is a road from the eye to the heart that often does not traverse the intellect.”

Darcy did not see what sort of response his remark had upon Beecher's countenance, for he immediately betook himself in service of his sister. Elizabeth had warned him that Georgiana felt unwell and was much in want of Fitzwilliam escorting her upstairs. That sounded remarkably like an imminent birth to him. He wished that Georgiana had listened to Elizabeth and not taken the journey to Kent. Saying “I told you so” would by no means be helpful and he quashed the inclination to employ it. But he could not keep from worrying. Indeed, he felt himself become increasingly apprehensive as he awaited Elizabeth to return to his side with news of Georgiana's condition. He stood apart from the other guests, nervously pulling at his cuffs, hoping against hope that Beecher would not again seek him out. Whilst one eye he kept upon his guard for that gentleman, the other he kept trained upon the stairs. After some time, Elizabeth appeared. She had stopt midway down the staircase and beckoned to him. He was to her side in an instant.

Employing no artificial formality, she said, “Her time is imminent.”

The expression she bore suggested just how imminent her time was. That concern was immediately shared by Darcy.

“Has the surgeon been called?”

She nodded that he had, but said, “I fear the baby will arrive ere does he.”