Darcy & Elizabeth (52 page)

Motherless Child

Lying in an unfamiliar bed under the eye of servants wholly unknown to her, Georgiana was a bit out of sorts. The doctor had given instructions for her to lie flat, and under no circumstances was she to attempt to rise.

“Simpleton,” she accused him silently, her emotions were far too stirred to lie still.

Indeed, she was thoroughly exasperated with the worthy doctor. Dearest Elizabeth had been of far greater service to her during her labour than the intestinally compromised Dr. Brumfitt. They had both been astonished that Lady Catherine had allowed him to return to her premises in that Lady Anne's care had been less than a stellar success. (Indeed, understanding Lady Catherine's temperament, it was an astonishment he had not been hung from a gibbet upon the nearest crossing.) The more Georgiana thought of him, the more indignant she became over his incompetence. Any country midwife would have been preferable. Indeed, he had been as useless as—what was that crude expression farmers use? Oh, yes—more useless than teats on a boar.

She laughed inwardly at the thought of what her gentlemanly husband might say if he were witting that she had even heard such a coarse term, much less employed it. So far as she was concerned, he would never learn of it. She could never affront his sensibilities in that manner. There were strict rules for a lady's comportment. She knew them well. Indeed, at one time, those rules were the guiding force of her life. She clung to them when she had no will of her own. Having thrown off that yoke so thoroughly (she considered herself to have been to the wars as certainly as any soldier), she wondered if she would ever be happy again with calm country pursuits and amusements. Although she fully intended to retain her respectability with all due diligence—for both her husband's and her brother's sakes—she knew it would be an impossibility for her to compleatly abandon her interest in the healing arts.

Because of that interest, Georgiana had been more keenly attentive to the particulars of Lady Anne's demise than the average curiosity seeker. However, her own unexpected accouchement had not allowed her to learn just what led to Lady Anne's passing. It was the general consensus that Anne fell victim to what most frequently took a mother's life during childbirth—that of bleeding out. It grieved her that she had not been by her cousin's side to suggest to the surgeon the application of cobwebs, for they were known to have a coalescing effect.

Indeed, her remedies were many and now that she had been enfolded into the exclusive league of ladies who had experienced childbirth, Georgiana was thrilled to know that she too could attend the labour of others. A surgeon with his dirty hands and brusque manner would be rendered unnecessary. She knew not which blessing she admired most—loving husband, beautiful daughter, or the future good she would do. She could not have been more delighted had she had another book accepted for publication. Even then, she was fast on the subject of her next piece of writing. After her marriage, she had largely abandoned her fledgling writing career. At one time literary composition had been her most comforting pursuit. Of late, she had found other, more gratifying means of satisfaction. But she thought in due time she might want to explore the possibility of a work incorporating two of her great loves—writing and the curatives.

“Perhaps a treatise upon the Therapeutic Advantage of Bloodletting,” she mused, “published under a pseudonym, of course.”

“My dearest,” said Fitzwilliam, “you have awakened.”

Georgiana only then realised that her husband sat in a side-chair just beyond her reach. As Fitzwilliam rose and approached the bed, so did a nurse bearing her freshly arranged newborn. Georgiana attempted to raise herself upon her pillows, but two servitors hurried forth and plumped them for her. As soon as she was situated with her daughter tucked in the crook of her arm, Fitzwilliam inched forward so as not to miss a moment of the presentation.

As the baby squirmed and threatened to cry, Fitzwilliam leaned over and kissed the single ginger curl that protruded from her tiny cap.

“I daresay, Darcy, I know not who is more beautiful—my wife or my daughter.”

Darcy had entered the room, but remained near the door as if to protect the couple from his intrusion. History had instructed him that this was to be a moment of uncommon intimacy for them. Georgiana, however, spied him there and held out her hand to him. Only then did he walk forward and take it, kissing her knuckles. For a moment, his countenance was threatened. But he quickly reclaimed himself.

Said he, looking upon the tiny bundle she held, “It appears, my dear sister, that search beneath the gooseberry bush was a great success.”

As all three had been told at one time or another that beneath the gooseberry bush was where babies came from, both she and Fitzwilliam laughed appreciatively—both at the nature of the jest and that her staid brother attempted to make one.

“If you can possibly spare me,” Darcy continued, “I must away briefly to London.”

Georgiana was busy fussing with the baby and acquiesced to her brother's departure with a smile. Fitzwilliam, however, rose and accompanied him to the door, curious as to what urgency might have precipitated such an abrupt departure.

“Is there any way I might be of assistance?” inquired Fitzwilliam.

The answer Darcy gave was both heartfelt and unsurprising. “You can be of no greater service to me than allowing me to know that you are at my sister's side.”

He took Fitzwilliam's hand and shook it firmly. Thereupon he cast his other arm about him, drawing him into the first embrace they had ever shared.

“Elizabeth abides,” he assured him, “should you want for anything.”

Without actually saying the words, he bid him good-bye.

Fitzwilliam watched as Darcy strode off down the hallway. With a thoughtful furrow between his brows, he returned to Georgiana and the baby.

“Do you happen to be privy to what business your brother might have in London?” he inquired mildly.

Georgiana shook her head. They punctuated their exchange with a gaze that shared a bit of concern as to the nature of Darcy's away. It was unusual for him to take his leave unaccompanied by his wife. When within hours Elizabeth visited Georgiana's bedside to advise them of her own imminent leave-taking, again they exchanged glances. However, they accepted her regrets of company with the same agreeability they had Darcy's. Upon this occasion, however, Fitzwilliam's offer of assistance was ever more fervently proposed. Indeed, he followed her out of the room to insist upon it. Therefore, Elizabeth felt compelled to give some sort of explanation, but knew employing the name of Wickham would not be to Georgiana's benefit.

“My sister, Lydia,” she said cryptically.

“Ah, yes,” replied Fitzwilliam.

As the good colonel had met Lydia and knew of her history, Elizabeth did not need to elucidate further.

When he returned to Georgiana, whose eyebrows had risen in inquiry, the single name was all he employed as well. In doing so, he had to eschew the protocol of the lady's proper title of Mrs. Wickham.

“Lydia,” said he.

Georgiana's brows immediately knitted, announcing his circumlocution not a compleat triumph. Immediately thereafter, her countenance returned to its former glow. It was as if she had willed herself not to allow past transgressions to haunt her present happiness. It was a decision which Fitzwilliam wholeheartedly approved.

Having bested that small bugaboo, Georgiana had opportunity to address another, far more serious one.

“Have you had the opportunity to admire my cousin's poor motherless baby?”

“I must confess that I have not,” he replied. “I have had another baby much upon my mind.”

She smiled and patted his hand, but explained her inquiry. “I held her a bit before poor Anne was laid to rest. I was most distressed…”

“Pray, could that be what brought on your labour?”

She gave him a withering look, making it clear to him that he was to hear her out without placing blame for her daughter's early arrival. Before she continued, however, an odour emanating from her daughter bid Georgiana to unwrap the blanket one revolution. Thus exposed, she observed approvingly of the colour of the stool therein and nodded for the nurse to see to her.

“Oh dear God in heaven!” exclaimed Fitzwilliam when the odour wafted in his direction.

As the nurse moved forward to take the baby, Georgiana reproved the new father. “I would think that a colonel of the cavalry, a successful participant in the Peninsular and Waterloo campaigns, would not be felled by a mere scent.”

With great efficiency, the nurse whisked the baby from Georgiana and out the door. Fitzwilliam recollected himself, and had only begun to defend his sensibilities to his wife whence came a knock upon the door frame. The door had been left open and Yewdell stood there stiffly at attention, his toes carefully arranged at the threshold.

“Beg pardon, m'lady,” he said. “Your servants have inquired if they might have the honour of looking upon the young mistress in the nursery.”

“Of course,” Georgiana replied. “They are very welcome.”

Beyond the door and Yewdell stood Hannah, Goodwin, and Georgiana's recently acquired lady-maid, Lucy. All wore properly reverent expressions, but Hannah's eyes twinkled. That made Georgiana smile. Before he closed the door behind him, Yewdell extended a gingham-wrapped gift. It was tied with a string and he seemed embarrassed to proffer it. Seeing as Yewdell was shy of coming into the room, Fitzwilliam rose and took the package from his hand. A nervous giggle was heard from behind Yewdell as the gift was tendered and Yewdell frowned at the indiscretion.

“Thank you, Yewdell,” said Georgiana. “You are so very kind.”

“Oh no,” said Yewdell, mortified to be identified as the giver of this paltry gift, “'tis not from me—Mrs. Darcy's woman, it is from her hand.”

“Hannah, you say?” Georgiana glowed with delight, insisting, “Do bring her forth!”

Hannah then sidled into the room, wringing a pocket-square anxiously in her hands and still trying to stifle her nervous laugh. Only then did Georgiana nod to Fitzwilliam to untie, and then unroll, the gift.

“I only just finished it, m'lady,” Hannah said proudly. “I've been working on it lo these many months. Wasn't it the luck now that I happened to bring my work-box with me on this trip—what with you taken to the straw like you did.”

At that point, a tiny gossamer shawl of considerable glory was revealed and Hannah got the best of her babbling by pressing her pocket-square firmly to her lips. Although she quieted herself, she veritably beamed with pride. Unaccustomed to handling delicate items, Fitzwilliam struggled for a moment to find two corners with which to display it for Georgiana's approval.

“Oh, Hannah!” Georgiana exclaimed. “I have never seen anything quite so lovely!”

“Mrs. Darcy,” said Hannah, “she gave me the yarn, but I did the knitting m'self. I suppose it is from both of us.”

She fell quiet, watching as Georgiana caressed the shawl she had so painstakingly fashioned.

In a moment, Georgiana said, “Please take it to Nurse and wrap my daughter in it now.”

Hannah gave a quick curtsy, retrieved the shawl, and headed out the door. Yewdell had stood silently during this exhibition and gave a resigned sigh when at last Hannah betook herself from the room. After he had excused himself, the sweetness of the moment turned melancholy for Georgiana.

“I do wish,” she said, “that Mrs. Annesley had lived to see our daughter.”

In the silence that followed, the unspoken regret was for Georgiana's mother as well. Mrs. Darcy's death in childbirth was rarely brought into conversation. Indeed, throughout Georgiana's confinement it was a forbidden subject. Now that she had successfully delivered, that ban had been lifted.

“It is sad,” she observed, “so very sad.”

Fitzwilliam agreed—but warily—that it was sad indeed.

“To think the poor child will not ever have a mother's arms to hold her.”

Again, Fitzwilliam nodded his head in hesitant agreement of the inherent sadness of such a situation, only then realising that Georgiana was referring not to herself, but to her cousin's daughter.

Georgiana continued, “I cannot bear to think of that baby alone, forever, when our child will have us both for all her days.”

Indeed, so great was her empathy, she began to weep.

“I cannot bear it,” she repeated.

“There, there, my sweet Queen Bess,” soothed Fitzwilliam. “Lady Catherine is well and will see that she has her every wish. She will want for nothing.”

“She will be in great want of the one thing Lady Catherine cannot give.”

Lady Catherine's great love affair with herself was of legend. Hence it was unnecessary to delineate her aunt's motherly shortcomings. Fitzwilliam's logical mind leapt ahead, knowing just which way this wind was blowing.

“She would never give her up,” he announced with finality.

With that statement, Fitzwilliam the tactician gave up more of his position than he intended. That he had already determined Lady Catherine's answer meant the question was one that he would entertain. Georgiana knew that in having her husband agreeable to taking Anne's baby to their home, half of the sizeable battle that lay ahead had been won. It fell to her then to devise an arrangement that would entice Lady Catherine to let loose of her granddaughter—and have it all seem her ladyship's design.

A piece of cake.

The Talent of the Dead

The missive sent by Lydia had been, for her, succinct. She related that Major George Wickham was back from the dead and she was in a bit of a muddle. She could not quite make out just who had the prevailing claim upon her services as a wife.

“Major Kneebone is threatening Wickham to a duel for my honour, and I know not what to do!!!”

The three exclamation points in Lydia's voice did not make Elizabeth think for a minute that the craven cad of a deserter who was George Wickham would engage in a duel with a living, breathing gentleman of the blade. But Kneebone seemed the sort who just might think he had to protect his wife's honour.

“Honour, Lydia?” Elizabeth snorted. “Surely that is a jest!”

Elizabeth set out immediately and alone for London. She made her regrets to Lady Catherine by note. That was not the best of manners, but she was not of a mind even to speak to her ladyship, much less make her privy to Bennet family business. She knew that two post riders coming in one day would start tongues to wagging from all corners of the house. Not wanting to worry Fitzwilliam or Georgiana, she explained away their hasty leave-taking in the simplest and least alarming terms. Georgiana was happy to hold her daughter and not worry of what she did not know. Fitzwilliam was less complaisant.

“Are you certain all is well?” he asked, worriment testing his countenance.

“We shall both return before Georgiana misses us,” she assured him.

She had her lone footman see to the carriage. As she had suspected, Darcy had taken the larger coach. Her reason to hie for London with all due haste was one of such import that she felt little compunction in doing so. It was her intention to return before Darcy. It would be much easier confronting him with what had gone before than to vex him with what must be done. It was only on the road to London that she thought to wonder if her driver or her footman was armed. Because Darcy had armed himself, she chose to believe at least one of her men was as well. She did not ask. It would have made little difference in her decision. This matter of Wickham must be straightened out immediately. She was happy that she had taken the trouble upon Lydia's new marriage to inquire of her Uncle Phillips what the law said concerning the return of a husband thought dead. In his letter containing that information, with the kindest of words he had told her that she worried too much—that Wickham was for certain dead and buried in some grave in the Low Countries.

“A good riddance it would be,” said that wise man.

Armed with what she knew of the law, she was prepared to advise Lydia that there was a choice to be made. When a man was thought to be dead and reappeared after his widow, with all good intentions, re-wed, said wife's second marriage was not necessarily null and void—the wife could choose which marriage to uphold.

“If Lydia does not have the sense God gave her to choose Major Kneebone, I wash my hands of it all!” said Elizabeth aloud to no one but herself.

She had been compleatly satisfied with the gentleman who had taken Lydia's hand in marriage. He seemed a sensible sort, a man under whose influence Lydia (and thus her family) might at last be free from alarm and affliction. She feared, however, that all would not end happily. Major Kneebone seemed to be a kind and loving man, but it perplexed her how a man with those qualities might think he could find happiness with a young woman such as her sister. He could not be a fortune hunter; Lydia had nothing but debts. It could not be a meeting of the minds, for he was a thoughtful sort and Lydia had not picked up a book but to use it as a weight for pressing the ribbons of her bonnet. Kneebone could not be such a simpleton not to know that he was being used. All Lydia ever had to promote herself had been her girlish allure.

“The only thing not in his favour is his taste in wives,” thought Elizabeth meanly, before chastising herself for it. She fitfully mused over the appearance of so many vexations coming to light in so short a space of time—Anne's death, Bingley's ruin, Charlotte's lot—and now the spectre of Wickham had re-entered their lives. Somehow filtering through her thoughts came a few appropriate lines.

“When sorrows come, they come not single spies; but in battalions,” Elizabeth repeated.

At least, she reminded herself, Georgiana had successfully given birth. She refused to acknowledge that said lady was also, for the foreseeable future, a captive in Rosings Park's ominous machinations. At least Fitzwilliam was there to guard her. Georgiana was safe unless Lady Catherine employed that most effective weapon of hers—the one even Elizabeth's own resolute husband had little defence against. Who would have thought that the formidable Lady Catherine would have stooped to a lady's most offensive ploy? Tears. Who would ever have thought?

All of this rumination relieved her of the most vexatious thought of all.

As the months drew on and Wickham had not reappeared, she and Darcy had become increasingly sure that he was dead. It was not a troubling thought. His death would have been far more bearable to all concerned than his survival. She had very nearly prayed for that, only retreating when she realised such a wish as not only uncharitable, it was a sin. Wickham had committed enough sins for her not to contribute to the further sullying of righteousness. Still, she could see no one who would benefit from his survival. Not Lydia, not his sons, and most certainly not Darcy. She knew her husband had never quite come to terms with the fact that Wickham was a half-brother to him. If he could not manage that notion in light of Wickham's death, she was loath to imagine his struggle upon beholding the living, breathing embodiment of his beloved father's adultery. The single way she could keep her own mind from running wild with the implications of it all was to refuse to think of it. She would address each problem as it arose. For now, she had to reach Lydia before she made a disastrous decision.

Elizabeth notified neither Jane nor the Gardiners of this latest catastrophe, and she prayed that Lydia had not either.

Her coachman knew his way about the streets of London, therefore they arrived in a timely fashion. When she approached the door, she gave an inward exclamation at the stateliness of the Kneebones' new home. She had expected something more modest.

“We are in such an uproar,” Lydia burst out when she saw her.

“Have you informed Uncle Gardiner?”

Elizabeth's first interest was to see how contained this incident was. She held the single hope that she might make arrangements for Wickham's withdrawal without Darcy's immediate knowledge. There was a modicum of guilt that accompanied this scheme, but she endeavoured to rationalise her decision of covertness on behalf of her husband's abhorrence of the entire subject.

“Nay, I have not,” replied Lydia. “I have only informed you, Lizzy. But,” she looked around and behind Elizabeth, “I had hoped that you would have brought Mr. Darcy. He has taken care of everything before. I believed he would be best suited for this as well.”

So much history was involved in Lydia's statement that Elizabeth was disinclined to recall just how often her dear Darcy had been called upon to rescue various members of her family. He was on just such a mission then (in the Bennet family's defence, Bingley was his friend as well). She dared not share the particulars of his mission to loquacious Lydia. Bingley's financial woes would be in the newspaper in five counties by daylight. She saw the same girl with the piercing eyes holding Lydia's shawl-draped baby. She stood resolutely rocking the infant in her arms. Elizabeth knew nothing of the girl's background, and doubted Lydia did either.

Elizabeth asked Lydia for reassurance of her discretion. “And to no other?”

“No, Lizzy, I have said nothing. I am much in want of assistance, but I do not know how all can be put to right without Darcy's intervention.”

Every time Lydia addressed him as “Darcy” rather than “Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth cringed. That familiarity was exceedingly vexing. (Every time Lydia ran her hands upon his coat-front, she had to choke down the desire to slap her three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as well, but she would address that failing upon another occasion.) Indeed, Elizabeth was happy that Darcy was not there. If he had to weather Lydia and Wickham—she knew not what means he might employ to be rid of them. Yes, she had been wise to exclude Darcy from this ordeal. And Lydia seemed disinclined to leap into Wickham's outstretched arms. This was very good news, indeed. The plan she had devised to rid them all from him forever might actually succeed. She meant to tell him of the rumours of his desertion. Hearing that, he might find it in his best interest to take his leave.

“Pray, Lydia, what did Major Wickham say? Was he explicit in his expectations?”

“His expectations?!” Lydia exclaimed. “He expects that I am to return to his bed forthwith! My own dear Major Kneebone means to fight him in a duel, Lizzy! Whatever are we to do?”

Major Kneebone had said very little throughout this exchange, which had taken place in a commodious parlour immediately after Elizabeth persuaded Lydia not to keep her standing in the doorway. The good major appeared discomfited. Whether this discomposure lay in his outrage over another man challenging him to his wife, the prospect of a duel, or his wife's putting him forth in a duel not of his making remained temporarily unexplored. The single fortune in Elizabeth's mind was that she did not find Wickham perched like a cat with a canary on their settee when she arrived. Not only was she unprepared to face Wickham, the murdering deserter, she most certainly did not want to intercede in a duel of honour. As to what next she would do, Elizabeth was uncertain.

“When does Major Wickham return? Not at dawn, I pray,” she asked ruefully.

“Not at dawn, but Hughie is to meet him tomorrow morn,” said Lydia, displeased with Elizabeth's attempt at a jest.

Major Kneebone was displeased as well, unhappy for Mrs. Darcy to be involved in matters that should rightfully belong to the menfolk.

“I thank you for coming, Mrs. Darcy. I was unaware that Lydia had alarmed you. These are matters for men to decide. You can rest assured that I will see to Lydia's best interests,” he said proudly.

Masculine pride was a characteristic with which Elizabeth was exceedingly familiar.

“I do not question your gentleman's honour for a moment, Major. But as my husband is much taken at the time by matters of business, I come in his stead. My father is dead. I will speak for the Bennet family. I am most familiar with Major Wickham and how he must be worked upon.”

It was a bit audacious, but entirely true. She believed she had an ace in the hole when it came to manipulating Wickham.

“It is a sticky situation, indeed, Mrs. Darcy. Although Lydia has been legally married, Wickham claims otherwise. He has told me that the law says he and Lydia are still rightfully wed. He claims that he will have me jailed for bigamy,” Kneebone said, worry lines threatening his forehead.

“Well, if that's the law, the law is an ass!” burst out Lydia. “The eye of the law is a blind idiot and I am certainly
not
married to George Wickham—that…that…that…” she sputtered. “He is no kind of a husband to a wife! Oh, black, black, and hollow heart has he—the bloody blackguard!”

“There, there,” soothed Kneebone to his nearly hysterical wife, clearly unperturbed by her foul mouth. To Elizabeth he said, “I confess I do not know the law, but ours cannot be the first instance of a husband returning after his death had been reported.”

Suddenly, Lydia pointed directly to her baby-nurse. “You! Yes, you! This is all your fault!” Turning about, she explained her accusation, “She was
whistling
!”

Disgusted at such idiocy, Elizabeth told her, “That is but an ancient myth. Ill tidings can still come about when hens do not crow and young girls do not whistle.”

The girl fled the room with the baby and Elizabeth gave Lydia a reproachful look. Lydia seemed unchastened, however. Still, Elizabeth was happy to have some actual facts upon which to act.

Indeed, it was with no small amount of self-satisfaction that Elizabeth gave her legal accounting. “As it happens, my Uncle Phillips is an attorney. We have taken the precaution to inquire of him just what is done in cases such as these. Wickham either does not know the law or is purposely misleading you—the second, I might guess, such a man as he is. Truth of the matter is that if a wife remarries upon reliable word of her husband's death and that husband is found later to be otherwise, the wife has the right to choose which husband to retain.”

Kneebone was noticeably relieved, clearly certain that he knew his wife's mind. However, a strange expression overspread Lydia's countenance, and in it Elizabeth saw clearly the girl of sixteen whom Wickham had seduced. Was Lydia recalling those moments of infatuation—had Wickham's return rekindled them? In that moment she saw it was imperative to keep Lydia from Wickham's clutches or she might be vulnerable to his easy words. In fortune, Kneebone did not recognise vacillation on his wife's countenance. Elizabeth saw then (had she expected any other?) that Lydia's fiercest enemy would be herself. She also experienced a giddy sense of hegemony, having come to the rescue as she had. It was fleeting, but altogether pleasing.

“Pray, is Major Wickham on hand to engage a meeting?”

The sense of command she had just felt began to waffle ever so slightly as she recalled the last time she had endeavoured to influence George Wickham—it had ended badly. (It had ended with Wickham being escorted from Pemberley at the point of a sword wielded by Darcy, but she would not allow that recollection to sway her.) It did begin to fret her just what Wickham would say in his own defence—he most certainly would have a long, involved, logical, and totally false justification for all that had occurred. It was also possible that he might deny it all. It might be imperative that she call his bluff—deny his denial. She was certain that she was a match for a seasoned liar such Wickham. It was said that the ends justify the means. She had once wondered how a man such as he was to be worked on. She was now fully informed as to that device. What she meant to do could only be called exaction—or extortion, blackmail, or coercion. None of those words were pretty, but then neither was the ilk of Major Wickham. She had right on her side—if indeed saving Lydia from herself was right. Had she not also been her husband's protector (he would never think himself in need of protection, but that was neither here nor there) against Wickham's re-entry into their lives, she might well have given Mrs. Kneebone the letter of the law and allowed her to stew in her own juices. But as many times as Darcy had defended her honour, she felt it was a noble calling to come to the defence of his. Righteousness gave her courage.