Into Kent (12 page)

“Yes, she is a woman of many fascinations, no doubt,” said Delacroix in his usual dry, sardonic tones. Darcy had never been certain as to Delacroix’s character; he seemed, at most times, to be nothing other than another of London’s intellectual fops—fashionable and
au fait
, but lacking any real depth. But from time to time, Darcy caught a glimpse of something deeper in his character. Then there was his wife, of course: a plain, sober, and good-hearted lady, whose family background was high enough to make it unlikely that hers had been anything other than a disinterested marriage, founded on esteem and affection on both sides. Her character argued more strongly in favour of Delacroix’s than did his own public manner.

“How did you happen to meet her?” Delacroix asked Darcy.

“St. Stephens introduced us,” Darcy said with a grimace of distaste at the memory of his cousin’s entire lack of decorum and propriety: yet another source of embarrassment before Miss Chesterton: his whole family must appear to her as the lowest set of fools ever to inflict themselves upon decent society. If she thought St. Stephens a duckling, what sort of animal must he appear?

“Of course, it would be St. Stephens,” Delacroix said in a low voice.

“How do you mean?” asked Darcy curiously.

“Oh, I do not mean anything, old son,” Delacroix said lightly. “I never mean anything, really. It is just that St. Stephens has been…interested…in Miss Chesterton for some time. I can imagine it would amuse him to bring her to your notice. Or perhaps he might only have been doing the lady a favour—after all, Darcy, I have watched half the women in London throw themselves at you.” He winked at Darcy.

“Do not be absurd, Delacroix,” Darcy chided him. “A lady like Miss Chesterton would never ‘throw herself’ at any one.” His own ill-advised misconstruction of her character made him all the more guarding of her reputation.

Delacroix looked at him blankly for a moment. “No, of course not; have you seen her since?” he asked in an off-handed manner.

“Several times,” Darcy acknowledged. “And how did
you
meet Miss Chesterton?” he enquired.

“We met when I was up at Balliol. Her father’s a Master: Wadham, I think…or was it Worcester? Met her at the Commemoration Ball, you know.”

“Was that one of the nights you were gated for being out after curfew?”

“That catastrophe never occurred, I assure you—in spite what you might have heard. No, at the time there was a most obliging set of revolving spikes that had rusted fast on the wall of the rear quad: a handily placed vine for a toe-hold and, up-and-over you went.” Delacroix eyes twinkled at the memory.

Darcy said with mild collegial loyalty, “Lord—Balliol! You would never find such goings on at Christ’s Church.”

Delacroix gave him an amused smile. “Of
course
not, Darcy,” he said with very evident insincerity. “No one would have the temerity to
ever
suggest such a thing about Christ’s Church.” Delacroix’s manner changed, becoming more serious and less affected. “Darcy, old man, I wonder…how much do you know about Miss Chesterton?”

“Only that she is charming, a fine dancer, and an excellent conversationalist,” Darcy said; as he spoke, Mr. Delacroix’s manner seemed almost embarrassed. “Why? What are you suggesting? Delacroix, I met her in your own house, you recall.”

“Indeed you did—it is nothing, really—only wondered if you had heard of her before.”

“Heard of her in what context?” Darcy asked pointedly.

Mr. Delacroix seemed to undergo another change of heart; in more his usual manner, he said, “Well, a woman with her many fascinations
does
get talked about, that’s all.” He stood and extended a languid hand. “I must be off, Darcy: delighted, as always. My best to Miss Darcy.”

Chapter Fourteen

Several days later, Darcy was taken back into Town on his affairs; his business complete and finding himself in Holborn Street, he was wondering whether to go straight back to Grosvenor Square or treat himself to a visit to the bookseller’s, when a nearby shop door opened and carried to him the smell of fresh coffee and baked goods. He followed the scents through the door and found himself in a fashionable little place, filled with warmth, intriguing smells, and quiet conversations. He sat down behind a little partition at a table next to a window and ordered a coffee and a small tart. He had finished his refreshments and was idly watching the passersby, when his attention was drawn away from the window by the sound of his own name—extremely unexpected in that time and place. Voices came from the table on the other side of the partition to his back: a woman was saying, “…with Mr. Darcy? Or are you ready to vary the tune with…was his name Manwarren? The other gentleman at Delacroix’s.”

“No, No—things are going very well, Alicia. He came to me after your party, all indignant and full of himself because that besotted slattern of a maid of mine couldn’t keep her mouth shut in front of his man. But, oh, Alicia! —I wish you could’ve seen me! I was decorum itself—I looked, and sounded, just like my grandmother! —I taught him whom to believe. I have sufficiently punished her, the wretch, but I am still deciding how to punish Mr. Darcy—he should never have allowed a doubt of my character to enter his mind, no matter what he heard; but he is well in hand.” Darcy recognised the two voices: they were Miss Chesterton and her friend, Mrs. Johnson. “No, you may believe me: the Bingley woman will know in future not to abuse my name in public—and certainly not in front of a man as eligible as Mr. Darcy.”

“Are you serious then, about the man?”

Miss Chesterton laughed. “Hardly. I might’ve been, if he were more amusing: he has money, and is not ill-looking, but he is stiff as a poker and has no notion at all of how to talk to a woman. Besides, while he may be easily subdued, he is far too young for convenience.” She went on in derision: “I‘ve never met a clumsier flirt, Alicia—the man actually believes a woman is interested in hearing the truth about herself! But I’ll make certain little Miss Caroline doesn’t have him, at any rate.”

At this point Darcy’s incredulity and astonishment gave way to his breeding, and he was compelled to announce himself. He stood and turned to face the two ladies. “I thank you, Madam, for making your feelings so clear, although I might regret the very public manner in which you chose to make your declaration.”

Miss Chesterton started and stared. “Mr. Darcy! ...What do you here, Sir?”

“The same as you, I should imagine: I came seeking refreshment. But instead, I found enlightenment.”

Recovering herself quickly, Miss Chesterton rose, and, placing a pleading hand on his arm, spoke with utmost sincerity: “Sir, you cannot imagine that I was serious just now. Do you know women so little as to believe that we speak our hearts thus freely?” she smiled winningly up at him, her eyes glowing as they sought his. “Nay, Sir, surely you know better. Rather, you must know that it is our nature to hide our true feelings; indeed, it is our duty to do so, to protect our reputations, to say nothing of our hearts. Society would surely shun us, and what man would not take advantage if he were somehow to hear a woman declare her true feelings for him?” As Darcy was silent, she went on with greater assurance: “I know you will forgive me for saying in public that which can have no other purpose than to hide surer feelings, which the most common sense of delicacy demands that any woman must keep locked in her secret heart, until she is secure of…the object of her desire.” At this she cast her eyes downward modestly, a blush rising to her cheeks.

Darcy stared at her for a long moment, his thoughts automatically tracing the logical flaws in her argument. He was frankly amazed that the woman believed herself capable of subjugating his reason again, after what he had just heard. He found himself once again transported in mind to his father’s study, listening to Wickham tell lie after lie—but this time, he was the one seated across the desk, and the deceitfulness before him was almost palpable. While wholly disgusted by this display, he had to acknowledge to himself that it was very convincingly done: to blush on command was a far higher degree of accomplishment than ever Wickham had achieved. He thought wryly to himself that this level of achievement must be the difference between the Town liar and the Country liar.

The lady, misinterpreting his silence, permitted a faint smile to appear on her lips. She was on the point of relaxing her grip on his arm and inviting him to join them when he surprised her with: “You are saying then, I take it, that it is a woman’s duty to tell untruths. That a proper feminine delicacy demands that she lies. What a
fascinating
conundrum!”

“Sir,” Miss Chesterton said, shaking her head in confusion. “That is a most unkind interpretation of my words. Are you determined to be so very ungallant, then? I had thought we were done with suspicion.”

Darcy ignored this, adhering to the subject at hand: “Your argument begs the question, then, of whether you were being untruthful to me, when you demonstrated a regard for me, or to your intimate friend, just now, in renouncing that regard?” At this Darcy saw the lady’s friend mouth a pained “O!” in sympathy with Miss Chesterton. He kept his countenance carefully neutral while he awaited her reply.

Miss Chesterton shook her head again, a pretty frown creasing her brow. “Sir, you mistake me, indeed. A woman’s thoughts do not walk a straight line like a man’s…”

But Darcy was not attending to her artifice; he was wielding logic as a rapier, as he had learned under Pender’s tutelage. “You are saying then, Madam, that a woman simply cannot help but say untruths? I thank you for this most valuable lesson. If that be the case, out of concern for my own reputation, I must feel that I am better off avoiding all such persons as yourself entirely in future.”

With barely a nod, he turned to leave; the lady, stunned, seemed unable to respond. He had almost reached the door when Miss Chesterton hissed angrily at his back: “Go back to the Bingley woman, then, Sir! You deserve no better. Share your truths with
her
, if you will. But do not imagine, Mr. Darcy, that the truth will bring you happiness in
this
life.” Darcy turned and stared through her for a moment, then left without saying a word. As he walked out into the chilly afternoon, he reflected that the time he had spent at University might not be very useful in winning a woman, but it was decidedly useful in knowing when and how to cut one.

Chapter Fifteen

The publicity of his
eclaircissement
with Miss Chesterton gave Darcy great distress; he knew it would not take long to make the rounds amongst the wagging tongues of the
ton
. It was exactly the sort of scandal that the people of fashion in Town would find intoxicatingly delightful, and that he, as master of Pemberley, always sought to avoid. And, indeed, only a day later he received early notice that his name had suddenly become the talk of London: his cousin, St. Stephens, sought him out Friday evening, on returning from an afternoon at his club. He came to find Darcy in his library. “I say, Darcy,” said he in an agitated manner, “I’ve just heard the most extraordinary thing at Boodles: is it true you’ve given Miss Chesterton the cut direct—no…worse—a public dressing down?”

“Not that I see it is any of your affair, St. Stephens, but yes, I have. May I ask what your interest is in the matter?”

“Well, for God’s sake, man, I introduced you—and for your own good! Some one had to blast you out of your shell; and if any one could do it, it would have to be Miss Susan Chesterton.”

“And what does that mean, pray tell?” asked Darcy.

“Lord, man, are you blind? She could make a dead man shoot out of his coffin with the crook of a finger! And, if she had any reason, she’s probably the woman who’d give it a try,” he added in an aside. “At any rate, she’s a lady I’ve been after for years, but she won’t have me. She would have done you, though, and what do you do? You give her a tongue lashing in some shop, if I got the story right from Cavendish! Scolded her like a scullery maid in front of the whole world! Who would believe it? What were you thinking, man? You cannot treat a woman like Miss Chesterton this way; half the men in Parliament have taken a run at her. I have personal knowledge of two duels fought over her, and young Carruthers blew his brains out when she left him! She’ll have none of me now, that’s certain.” He turned to leave, but stopped at the door: “Hate to say it of me own blood, but you’re an idiot, Darcy—that’s all: a complete idiot.”

With that he swept out, leaving Darcy to stare blankly at the door and shake his head—but whether at his cousin, or at his own folly, was debateable. What had he been thinking, indeed? Looking back, he could only admit to himself that there had been very little thinking involved; and after he had chided Bingley for failing to use
his
“higher powers”! His spirits sank lower each time he thought of it; he turned back to his book and attempted to read, but he could not keep his mind in order: his thoughts kept returning to the affair with Miss Chesterton. His reputation must suffer, there could be no doubt of that. And certainly, if his name was the subject of conversation at one club, it could not fail to be mentioned at others—including his own, no doubt; this early example of how his misjudgement of Miss Chesterton would sink his standing added itself to his general torment over the affair.

He cursed himself again and again for having been so blind: from the very first evening, the reactions of both Miss Bingley and Miss Hartsbury should have warned him—and the assurance of Miss Chesterton’s putting herself forward to ask for a dance was certainly untoward, if not actually improper; and it now occurred to him to realise that there was also a decided indelicacy in her enquiries about his relations with Miss Bingley; yet she had spoken of modesty! At every turn he could now see signs and portents as to her character: the meeting—was it accidental?  —at the furniture warehouse, and the merchant’s obvious dislike of the lady, now brought into focus by subsequent events; her brazen attempt to be alone with him at the pianoforte; being so forward as to invite him to her hosts’ party, and, God above! —her attempt at outright seduction that evening! Then her lies to “subdue” him the day after! Even Delacroix had tried to warn him, although he had not seen it at the time. He could not excuse himself for his blindness. And now, his name was being bandied about by men of George’s stripe—in disdain! —his Cousin George, looking down on
him
!

The only good that did come out of it was that it cleared the air between Perkins and himself; yet his man hardly knew how to be happy for the fact: he felt for Darcy’s disgrace almost as if it were his own.

Some of his worst distress during this trying time involved Miss Elizabeth Bennet: in his afflictions, his thoughts repeatedly turned to her, with deepest mortification at how she must view this debacle if it were known to her; he was very sensible of having dishonoured his feelings for her, even if she could have no knowledge of it. How he ever could have thought Miss Chesterton resembled Miss Elizabeth Bennet in any way was now beyond his comprehension; the two women were so far distant in character, in honesty, in decency—in all those things, in fact, most violated by even the slight interest he had shown Miss Chesterton—that his heart railed at him when he demanded of himself how he could have fallen prey to a creature such as Susan Chesterton, after having known a lady such as Elizabeth Bennet. He could only hope that no whisper of his disgrace would ever reach her ears.

Yet again, he saw how little to be trusted was the heart, and the realisation that even
he
was not beyond being taken in, while it allowed him to forgive his father to a degree, still frustrated and angered him. His heart did whisper to him that Elizabeth would not have deceived him so, but his rational side directly retorted that, as she was not to be his either, her superiority could offer no comfort; indeed, it only made his frustration the worse, from knowing the cure to be beyond reach.

A day or two afterwards, he happened to overhear his Aunt Eleanor in a low-voiced conversation with an old friend who had stopped in to visit; the words “Susan Chesterton” came to his ears, and he hastened away down the hallway. Later in the day, though, Lady Andover came by his library, merely to pat his shoulder and kiss the top of his head with a murmured: “My dear Fitzwilliam: you are a good boy.” Her approving tone confused Darcy, but she never mentioned it again. There were few such moments of reprieve, however; Darcy’s revulsion at suddenly finding himself the darling of the
ton
was beyond expression; he received dozens of invitations from people he had never heard of, and not a few from people of whom he had heard far too much. He abhorred the degenerate fascination implicit in these invitations; the only reason these people had any interest in him now, was because of the scandal he had embroiled himself in; and this worst sort of celebrity was exactly the kind of indignity from which he had always sought to hold himself aloof.

Such were the gentle murmurs of Darcy’s heart, and he had little else to divert himself with through the long nights of that dark winter month: the men of his family had gone their separate ways on the Monday following his
contretemps
in the coffee house; Georgiana had gone with her Aunt Eleanor to Bath to visit relatives from Lady Andover’s side of the family; and Bingley returned to his house in Manchester Square to spare his friend from constant worry over his low spirits—with the avowed reason being “to attend to the details of my bankruptcy”. There was little business to attend to, and Darcy’s temper was not such as to accept social engagements from his acquaintance; and certainly he had little impetus to seek out new friends. With nothing to do, and no one for whom he need keep up appearances, the weeks passed with him becoming more and more reclusive, and whole days would go by wherein he would scarcely stir out of his library. He was glad Georgiana was absent, for he had no wish for her to see him thus. She would fret, and would probably try to offer assistance he could as well do without. But the long days of silence eventually began to wear on him, and, with Georgiana expected to return the second week of February, he knew he needed to be in better control of himself before her arrival.

He decided he was in need of a change of scene: he therefore determined to venture out to see Pender in Oxford; he left London on a clear Wednesday morning in the last week of January. On his arrival, the Christ’s Church porter greeted him with the deference and pleasure due a respected Member, and directly showed him to lodgings that were little different from the ones he had occupied as an undergraduate. He enquired whether Pender might be in College.

“Aye, Sir, the Master is in—would you be wantin’ ‘im?”

“Yes, Conyers, I should be obliged if you could let me know when I might be able to go round to see him.”

“Aye, Sir, that I shall.”

Rather than receive any message, however, Darcy was agreeably surprised by Pender himself appearing at his door shortly later that afternoon.

“Darcy, my dear fellow!” cried Pender, “What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here? Have you come to improve your knowledge of women and beer?” he asked, recollecting his jest at Delacroix’s.

Shaking hands with his friend, Darcy made a derisive noise and said, “I
wish
you might help with my understanding of the former—but I am certain I can count on your assistance with the latter.”

“That you can, my boy, that you can.” Pender laughed, clapping a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. He looked quizzically into Darcy’s face, adding: “But I can see that you are in need of enlightenment on
something
; well, if it is women, I am confident that improving your acquaintance with beer will give the impression that your understanding of women is improved.”

“Doubtless—but what about something more than just an impression?”

“Ah—There, I fear, we are at a loss. One might as well expect to grasp the mind of God as to understand the other sex.”

“Well, then, what use are you?” Darcy grumbled with feigned disgust.

“None whatsoever, in this matter,” Pender admitted cheerfully. “But I
will
stand you the first round.”

They left through the lodge, where Pender told the porter he might be back late and not to keep the gates open. Pender took Darcy some little way into town, to a pub visited infrequently by any but Senior Members. They settled into a back corner and Darcy’s mentor ordered food and two large pitchers of ale. Darcy looked at him in some surprise, but Pender said, “Nothing induces thirst like a discussion involving women—nor requires more…liquidity of thought.” Pender smiled brightly and raised his glass. “A toast?”

“Well, then…To understanding women.”

Pender shook his head dubiously, but said, “Well enough. —To understanding women…God help all men. Now then, Darcy, tell us a tale: what has brought you all this way to see a broken-down old schoolteacher?”

“Merely that said supernumerary, superannuated academic has one of the finest minds I know.”

“Then you had best cultivate a larger acquaintance,” scoffed Pender.

“Nonsense; and who was it taught me about the deception inherent in false modesty?” the older man shrugged sheepishly, and let the impeachment stand.

“And some one also once told me that the most efficient way to learn, was to ask the one who knows the most.”

“Good Lord, boy, if you think I know much about this, you are very much mistaken. The only men I have ever known who claimed to understand women, knew even less about the topic than they did about themselves. But never mind; we shall give it our best.” He topped off their mugs. “And to that end, toss that off and let me hear your story.”

Darcy launched into his topic: his difficulties with the previous Season in London, his meeting with
Miss Elizabeth Bennet in Hertfordshire (although he carefully held back her name), and finishing with his recent embarrassment with Miss Chesterton. They were beginning on their third mugs by the time he had finished.

When he had done, Pender said, “Well, Darcy, you
have
had quite the time…hold on, though—would you by any chance be speaking of Miss
Susan
Chesterton? Light hair, grey eyes, devilishly attractive smile?”

“Yes; you know her?” Darcy was surprised.

“Knew her,” Pender corrected. “Her father is Master of Wadham.”

“Yes,” Darcy confirmed, “So Delacroix said. Have you had trouble with her, too?”

His friend nodded with a wry expression. “Lord, yes; I should have known she would end up in Town—if not
on
the town. Yes, I did: the little beast even tried to climb into my lap once,” he said.

“Where’s the harm in that? Darcy asked, mystified.

“She was fifteen at the time, and I was standing up,” Pender said dryly. He shook his head. “You got off easily, Darcy. Her father nearly had to drive her away at sword’s point, before she ruined his reputation completely and got him thrown out of his post. She even flirted with the old Provost, and he was fourscore and three—the old dog.”

The two were silent a time, reflecting on their respective associations with Miss Chesterton. Pender came to himself first: thumping the table with his hand, he said, “To start with, you may put your mind at ease concerning the Chesterton woman; as the man who turned her down, and gave her a good, public basting, your reputation can only increase; women will adore you for it, and men will wonder with great envy who you have in your pocket that could make you reject such a morsel.”

Darcy, who had never before seen any possible good in the affair, now allowed a smile to appear. His aunt’s gentle benediction in the library suddenly made sense. “That might be true, might it not? Heavens, Vincent…that does make me feel better.”