Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (83 page)

In a moment he bid, “Are you certain, Lizzy? Bingley has never given me reason to question his character in word or deed for as long as I have known him. Perchance you mistook him.”

Elizabeth told him, regrettably, there was no mistake, “When I espied Mr. Bingley that day, I was so astonished and appalled I had no notion as how to tell you, or if it was in my province to speak of it. My concern I lent to Jane. I was certain was she to learn of such business as this, it would wound her gravely.”

For assurance, she added, “Did I doubt my own eyes, Jane came today bearing the story.”

Thereupon she told him of Jane’s knowledge of the baby and upon the heels of that, her own promise to seek his approval of bringing the child to live with them. Thinking it merely a formality in asking, she began to assure him how little inconvenience would be brought about, where the baby might sleep, who might attend it. Overtaken as she was by the necessity of preparation, she mused upon these matters almost to herself. Therefore, she did not see his eyes darken nor his mood alter.

But so decisively did he stand, his chair was forced back several feet.

Had this not startled her enough, he said, quite scornfully, “Yes, why do we not populate all of Pemberley with bastard sons?”

Thereupon he turned and angrily walked to the window she had so recently vacated.

She did not move. She did not think she could will herself to move. Her face flushed crimson. Tears threatened her, but she refused them. Cheeks blazing in fury, her hands clutched the arms of the chair as if to keep her from fleeing, either after him or from the room. Immediate upon his unreasonable umbrage at her for Wickham’s unexpected appearance, he spoke to her in this manner. It was his friend who had done the despicable, not her sister!

Righteous indignation fully employed, she desperately sought some sharp reply to him, but was visited by nothing but a fleeting vision of the shovel she had conjured for Charles Bingley.

Something made her stay and hold her tongue as well. It was decidedly not in character for him to treat an appeal from her so churlishly. Hence, she rose and went to him, putting her arms under his and about his waist, resting her cheek against the soft back of his coat. From the valley between his shoulder blades she detected the furious beating of a tortured heart.

As steadfastly as he held his pose, one might have supposed it would have taken no little persuasion for her to coax him from it. But it did not. When she reached up and turned his face to hers, it was not anger she saw. In that instant, he gripped her to him. At that moment, she could not see his face but she heard his words.

He repeated, “Lizzy, Lizzy, forgive me, forgive me.”

She kissed him, if not in understanding, at least in empathy, salted with a great deal of apprehension. Whatever caused him to lash out at her was far beyond the bounds of what he had just learnt of Bingley.

“I have already forgiven you, but please tell me.”

Taking her hand, he led her to the side chair by the window and cradled her upon his lap. It was only in that intimate embrace that he was able to embark upon the telling of his history with Abigail and Wickham.

“As you know,” he cleared his throat, “Wickham came to live in the house as an adolescent.”

She nodded.

“We were quite competitive as we raced and played at war. There were rivalries. Some were overt, some unwitting. It was during this time I was initiated into intimate rites with a young woman who worked here. As it happened, Wickham shared her favours first.”

As he spoke, she sat in bewilderment as to why he was telling her of this ancient story from his youth. He said he had an early dalliance with the same servant girl as
Wickham. How droll. Her husband’s gravity was the only thing that kept her from smiling as she thought of the two young men chasing the same young woman. Lusty, exuberant youths!

Playfully, she asked, “So this was the lady who worked foul designs upon your innocence!”

“I freely admit any pollutions committed were done with my absolute consent,” he smiled fleetingly (or at least turned up the corners of his mouth). That cheered her. So much so, it occurred to her to quiz him about specifics, but that ill-conceived notion was immediately cast aside with his very next revelation.

“The girl’s name was Abigail. Abigail Christie. John Christie’s mother.”

Elizabeth sat bolt upright and any notion of amusement deserted her. John Christie was born of this woman and Wickham fathered him. She blinked repeatedly.

“You and Wickham both lay with her?”

Which was not her true question, only the one she asked. Thus, he answered the one she had not inquired.

“Wickham is the boy’s father, not I.”

“You are convinced?”

“Not until Mrs. Reynolds related it to you did I know that Wickham had…been availed of her before me. She was well on with his child and, in my ignorance, I knew not of it.”

A flash of lightning could not have rendered it more blindingly clear: Darcy had first thought the young man was a son of his own, owing to her own loquacious dispensation months previous that John was the son of Abigail.

“Why do you speak of this only now?”

As he often did, he almost spoke, then retreated into silence. Invariably, quiet over-came him at the most precipitous moment possible. Betimes, this was only mildly frustrating. But not then. Elizabeth had to fight the urge to clutch his lapels and shout at him to speak to her. He had turned his face to the window. His silence allowed her to contemplate what he had just told her. Immediately, she understood the full complexity of his opposition to Georgiana’s friendship with John Christie. But she wondered why he was not relieved to learn that the boy was not his, for the possibility would have wounded his dignity. Most importantly, why did he not tell her?

Was he mortified at even a possibility that he fathered the boy? And why did he become angry? All of these questions begged answers, but he offered none.

To her husband, it would be substantial loss of face to have to admit to a misbegotten child. But Elizabeth could not help feeling a small disappointment that John was not truly Darcy’s, for the thought of being able to mother even a near-grown lad was far more inviting than the office of step-aunt. Thereupon, her own disappointment did the unlikely. It announced the crux of Darcy’s disorder, and that truth settled over her so heavily her shoulders visibly sagged.

Darcy too was disappointed.

And it was at her hand. It was she who took all due pleasure in announcing Wickham’s paternity to him, thus dashing his belief that the boy was his son. The only son, the only child he might beget. Another woman’s son. Of course, he could not tell her that.

The answer to every question, Elizabeth realised, was herself. It was she who could not give him a child. It was she who brought Wickham to his house, the true father of the son he thought was his. She was the one who spied upon Bingley, and she was the one who wanted him to take in Bingley’s child. In defeat, she dropped her hands from him. Only then did he look at her. He reached out and touched her face, thereupon he drew her to him again.

“Of course, we shall take the baby,” he said.

“We need not decide it now,” she said, unhappy that she had asked at all.

She had begun to be excited about the baby. Thenceforward and forever, that happiness was polluted. She was certain each time that she looked into the little boy’s face, it would hark back to her own failing.

Unable to tell Darcy that she had grasped the magnitude of her own role in his unhappiness, the next few days saw her spending far too much time ruminating upon Jane’s husband’s misdeeds.

For if Bingley could not keep his breeches buttoned and another child of his appeared thither upon the countryside, Elizabeth intended to hatch some heinous scheme to teach him a lesson. This was a delicate matter and engendered a great deal of malicious thought. One particularly delightful one she imagined involved a leather thong, a dead cat, and some pepper sauce.

Eventually, this obsession was abandoned and Mr. Bingley was granted temporary, if unknown, amnesty.

I
n the few years since that first fateful trip to London, the Darcys had not returned as often as society dictated. And when they did, each excursion there took upon all the preparation and caution of impending battle. And, in some sense, it was.

Mr. Darcy did not ride in the coach with his wife, even if it was occupied by only his wife, Hannah, and Goodwin. He rode his horse beside it, a gun beneath his coat and sword hugging his leg. Hannah knew it was not what her mistress might have chosen, for she had heard her attempt to cajole her husband to keep her company in the carriage. He had steadfastly and adamantly refused her (to Hannah’s understanding, a rare occurrence). Mrs. Darcy did not argue beyond that first brief endeavour. No one questioned why he chose to ride as he did, for it was quite accepted that his vigilance was rewarded far better from the saddle than in the leather seat of a barouche.

As the Darcys’ visits were infrequent, Cyril Smeads enjoyed almost unlimited autonomy amongst the servants in London even though Mistress Georgiana was often in residence. But her attention was employed by her writing and, regardless, she was not
inclined to find fault with the running of the household. Absence of the Darcys in town announced they spent most of their time at Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds (although she certainly would have been allowed) did not often take herself away from her duties to visit her son; hence, he was quite happy, upon occasion, to travel to see her in Derbyshire.

He brought with him (excess baggage of sorts) the very traits that alienated general regard of him in town. Pompous and petulant as his mother was humble and firm, they bore little similarity in character. Hannah thought that peculiar, but reminded herself that Goodwin was nephew and cousin, his own understanding of comportment distancing him from them both.

That abused Hannah’s own notion of familial similarity, for her four brothers, in manner as well as countenance, seemed almost interchangeable (so much so, neighbours often confused them). And, except for more generous waistline and a rather decided hair loss (his, not theirs), the brothers favoured their father as well. Although Hannah did harbour a few fanciful notions, her hand glass allowed her to entertain none about her own person. She knew her figure reflected a feminine interpretation of the familial sturdy build that predicted time would burden them all with more weight than a person of vanity might desire.

The single thing she hoped was left wanting. For she dearly wished she favoured her mother. Even though Hannah had been sixteen when she died, she could not remember her face. Her father’s somewhat taciturn disposition denied him comment upon the matter, hence Hannah was left to ponder that herself. When she consulted the looking-glass, she fancied she did favour her mother; for most mourners, memorial retrospection grows kinder with the years. She dared not seek her brothers’ counsel upon this, for they had never ceased to mock her for her elevation of position. Because of that, her visits home were a bit trying. Her pleasant nature, however, believed that in teasing they were simply dutifully fulfilling the office demanded of brothers, and did not complain.

But then Hannah rarely complained about anything. And it was unusual when she had curt words with Cyril Smeads for she was quite in fear of inciting his wrath even when he was no more than a visitor of the house. Cyril Smeads had little weight at Pemberley. There, his mother was in charge.

If Hannah was yet frightened of the son, she was no longer of his mother. Since the day the Darcys’ baby died and Mrs. Reynolds stopped her from running away, Hannah had readjusted her opinion of the old lady. For where once she had found her coldly critical, she now realised she was merely capable and strong with nothing but the best interest of the Darcys as her motive.

Hannah’s devotion to Elizabeth and exceedingly high regard for Mr. Darcy cemented Mrs. Reynolds’ opinion of Hannah as well. That day she ran from Mrs. Darcy’s childbirth in vain quest of her late mother, Hannah thought Providence had found her a second in Mrs. Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds still spoke sternly to her, just as she did the other servants. Yet underneath that terse cadence of instruction was undeniable affection. Hannah accepted that gift and returned it.

Her son was another matter compleatly. It was the single thing she found unforgivable in Mrs. Reynolds. She begat Cyril. The only positive that anyone could locate of him was that when his ill-temper was unemployed, he could be an interesting
conversationalist, for he did not limit his discourse to the weather and price of eggs. It might well be described as gossip, but only by those who did not have the benefit of hearing it first-hand.

Notwithstanding Hannah’s exceedingly well-husbanded maintenance of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy’s privacy, she did confess to an avid interest in listening to unsubstantiated rumours about others (the questioning of substantiation being, by far, the most enjoyable part). This did grieve her conscience, and upon Sundays, a better part of her prayers addressed this failing. However, she had far greater success at chastising herself subsequently rather than denying the opportunity, rationalising that it was not possible to determine it actually gossip until she had heard the entire tale.