Darcy’s Redemption
M. A. Sandiford
Copyright © 2019 M. A. Sandiford
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781979891202
Cover design: EMILY’S_WORLD_OF_DESIGN
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,
Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:
And often in my solitude I sigh
That those I do love are not more like thee!
I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,
I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)
Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone
Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,
With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,
Between me and the midnight heaven arise,
Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!
Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;
And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,
Because they see me gazing where thou art.
Caroline Norton (1808-1877)
Encounter
November 1837, Hertfordshire
From his upholstered seat in first-class, Fitzwilliam Darcy observed the teeming platform at Boxmoor station. His carriage lay at the back, away from the worst of the steam and smoke; he shared it with half a dozen travellers including a red-faced elderly gentleman who talked incessantly. Outside he noticed a fashionable couple, the lady in a tight bell-shaped dress, the man bearing a low top hat and cane. Further ahead, passengers swarmed around the cheaper carriages.
His eye ran along a row of low buildings, all new: ticket office, tea room, Ladies’ Room, a privy for the gentlemen. A woman in grey coat and bonnet darted from the ticket office, slowing as she realised there was no hurry. Her lively step roused a faint memory.
Darcy squinted, wishing his vision was keener. The woman’s dress was unfashionable, but indicative of money and taste. She carried a bulky carpet bag, but had not called a porter. He quivered as his eye tracked her progress towards the second-class section.
Could it be?
He rose, with a muttered explanation to the gentleman opposite. ‘I’ll stretch my legs.’
His companion grunted and opened The Times to read news of the young queen.
Descending, Darcy lost sight of his target. He peered into two second-class carriages with wooden benches. A grey coat drew his attention, but the figure was wrong, the hat too. Desperately he scanned the crowd at third-class, near the engine with its cylindrical tank and long thin funnel. People stared at him as he pushed in. A woman protested, but after mutual apologies went on her way.
He went rigid, as if electrified, as another woman came forward.
Grey bonnet. Lively expression. Those eyes.
She gasped and dropped her bag. They stood staring at one another as the crowd moved past.
‘Mr Darcy?’ Her voice was almost inaudible.
Darcy managed a token bow, struggling to recall her name. ‘Mrs, ah …’
‘Sibley.’ A smile, and the wonderful eyes came to life. ‘Why, we have not met since …’
‘Hunsford.’
She coloured. ‘Not my finest moment.’
‘Nor mine.’
She gestured towards his plain black coat and cravat. ‘I heard of your bereavement. I am so sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
She picked up her bag. ‘We had better hurry.’
‘May I accompany you?’
‘My ticket is third-class.’ An ironic smile. ‘You find me in somewhat reduced circumstances.’
Darcy frowned, wondering how the wife of a well-off clergyman could possibly be short of money.
Third-class carriages were open boxes on wheels. As they gathered speed Darcy gripped his hat in case it flew off in the breeze; the other hand he laid over the side. For all its discomfort the ride was exhilarating.
Mrs Elizabeth Sibley, née Bennet, tightened the laces on her bonnet. ‘What brings you here?’
‘A whim. Travelling down from Pemberley, I told my driver to leave me at Berkhamstead so that I could try out the new line.’
Elizabeth leaned over so that her ear was inches away: with wind rushing past, and the drumming of wheels on rails, it was impossible to hear otherwise. She would be in her early forties now, he estimated, but her complexion retained its bloom, and the hair was only lightly speckled with grey.
‘I am come from Jane’s family. They have a farm outside Meryton.’
‘You found her in good health?’
‘As usual.’ Elizabeth smiled. ‘I tease her that she is a mother hen, obsessed with her brood.’
Darcy looked away pensively, and she asked with sympathetic concern, ‘Have I said something to upset you?’
‘Not at all …’ He faced her again. ‘I hoped once that the shades of Pemberley would resound to the cries of happy young voices. But it was not to be.’
Her face fell. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘My wife blamed herself for our misfortune. I fear this contributed to her decline.’
Elizabeth touched his arm, and moved, he said, ‘You have children?’
She nodded. ‘Grace is eleven, Robert nine.’ Sadness shadowed her face. ‘I had to leave them behind.’
‘I was puzzled to find you travelling alone with inadequate funds.’
Elizabeth leaned over the edge, looking down the line as they approached Watford station.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘It is none of my business.’
She sighed. ‘On the contrary, it is kind of you to ask. The truth is that relations with Fredo …’ She reddened. ‘I mean my husband. I call him that. Relations are, shall we say, strained. He did not wish me to visit Jane, and refused to let the children go with me. I am hoping on my return to effect a reconciliation. Which means that I, the wife, will have to admit fault.’
‘You will say whatever your husband wishes to hear?’
‘A salutary destiny for one so outspoken, is it not?’
He studied her, sensing a despair concealed by her irony. ‘I believed in absolute honesty—once.’
‘We were young. Life had not yet prevailed on us to compromise.’ Her face opened in a warm smile. ‘Mr Darcy, it is such a delight to meet you again. It takes me back to merry days when we danced and sang, my family was together, my parents were alive, and I had nothing to vex me except what to wear at the next ball.’
He blinked back tears. If only he had behaved better. Won her good opinion. Warned her father of Wickham. Left Bingley to court her sister …
If only.
The train stopped, people climbed in and out. Spots of rain fell on his hand. He wondered whether she would let him buy her a first-class ticket, if the weather worsened.
They set off again, towards London Euston.
Part I: Before
1
December 1813, London
In the public gallery of the Old Bailey Justice Hall, Elizabeth sat next to her Uncle Gardiner as the judge summed up the case against a man who had stolen money from a chandler’s shop. Standing in the dock, the accused was a sheepish youth who looked resigned to his fate. His defence was that the shopkeeper had asked him, as a favour, to take the cash to a neighbour in payment of a debt.
She whispered to Mr Gardiner, ‘It won’t be long now.’
He nodded. ‘Unless the jury disagree and the judge adjourns for lunch.’
Elizabeth sighed: there was little prospect of that. She looked around the cramped courtroom, where Justice Le Blanc perched over a grand table with seats for bewigged lawyers, and scribes to record the proceedings; on his left twelve jurymen filled two rows. Next to the judge sat the Lord Mayor, peering down in contempt at the persons brought before them. Cases were dispatched in quick succession: typically half an hour sufficed to hear the complaint, the witnesses, and an appeal from the accused.
Justice Le Blanc addressed the jury. ‘Are you agreed on your verdict?’
A spokesman replied. ‘We are, milord.’
‘How do you find?’
‘Guilty, milord.’
The judge faced the accused, for whom this was not a first offence. Elizabeth winced as sentence was passed. Death. By public hanging, three days hence, at the scaffold outside Newgate prison.
The impassive prisoner was taken away while the lawyers shuffled papers for the next case. Elizabeth blinked, feeling a nightmarish sense of unreality as her sister Lydia was led into the dock.
The prosecutor, a morose elderly gentleman with corded pince-nez, summoned witnesses from the front of the gallery. ‘If your lordship pleases, the accused, Miss Lydia Bennet, was indicted for taking a purse, and a watch valued at three guineas, from Mr Samuel Harding, after consorting with him at a room in the Plough Inn, St Mary Islington. Also, for stealing two sovereigns from Mr John Groves through the same subterfuge.’
Elizabeth observed her sister throughout this speech, but noticed no reaction. In the dock Lydia cut a pathetic figure, staring in bewilderment at the gallery as if expecting someone to rescue her. Their eyes met in a twitch of recognition, and Elizabeth discreetly raised a palm.
The main witness was called. Mr Harding was a man in his thirties, gaudily kitted out in green waistcoat and cream breeches. He had met Miss Lydia Bennet in a tavern, in the company of a certain George Wickham. After Wickham had left them alone, Miss Bennet had declared Mr Harding’s profile pleasing, and suggested adjourning to a room at the Plough Inn. While passing the evening in her company he was roused by a creak from the door while dozing. He found Miss Bennet outside in the street, examining the contents of his purse.
‘And did the accused restore your property?’ the prosecutor asked.
Harding mopped his brow. ‘She returned the purse but claimed the money belonged to her.’
The prosecutor raised his eyebrows. ‘Had payment been mentioned?’
‘It had not.’
Reacting for the first time Lydia looked daggers at the witness, and Elizabeth feared she might incur the court’s disapproval by contradicting him. But it seemed she had been coached, for she held herself in check.
‘Pray continue,’ the prosecutor said.
‘Naturally I disputed this.’ Harding raised his arms and looked in supplication at the jury. ‘A constable happened by and overheard our argument. Out of pity I offered to forget the incident provided Miss Bennet returned the money. Then we discovered she had also taken my watch, after which the constable took her into custody.’
The judge called on the defence lawyer Mr Tallboy, a friend of Mr Gardiner’s, who rose to face the witness. He was an earnest young man, keen to do his best, but Elizabeth wished they could have found a counsel with more gravitas.
‘Mr Harding.’ Tallboy paused. ‘For how long had you known Mr Wickham?’
‘A few days.’
Tallboy turned to the prosecutor. ‘Have attempts been made to obtain his testimony?’
‘Mr Wickham has left his lodgings, milord,’ the prosecutor said. ‘His whereabouts are unknown.’
Tallboy resumed his questioning of the witness. ‘Did Wickham receive money from you before leaving you alone with Miss Bennet?’
Harding bristled. ‘Certainly not!’
The prosecutor called his second witness, Mr Groves. He too had been introduced to Miss Bennet by Wickham. After a tryst at a different inn he had awoken to find his purse empty and the lady gone. Having no means of tracing her he had let the matter drop until questioned by a constable, who got his name from the innkeeper.
The defence counsel rose to ask the same questions as before. Like Harding, Groves denied any agreement to pay for Lydia’s attentions. From the sniggers in the gallery Elizabeth realised nobody believed him; nevertheless, the testimony stood.
Since there were no more witnesses, Justice Le Blanc called on Lydia to answer the charges.
‘Miss Bennet.’ Tallboy smiled encouragingly. ‘Do you accept the evidence just given, or wish to contest?’
‘Oh, I met with them, as they said.’ Lydia glared at her accusers. ‘But it wasn’t stealing. It was a joke that George played on them …’
‘You mean, Mr Wickham?’
Lydia addressed the whole courtroom. ‘We eloped, you see, and were bound for Gretna Green, but George needed money for the journey so he looked for friends who might pay for a bit of fun. But he feared they would not honour their word, so he suggested I took their valuables as a precaution. Not to steal them, you understand, but to deduct what we were owed before returning them.’
‘Can you assure the court that you acted entirely under Mr Wickham’s direction? In other words, that this joke, as you call it, was entirely his idea?’
Elizabeth cringed as Lydia suppressed a giggle.
‘George said we’d have a good laugh about it once we were on our way to Scotland.’
‘Milord.’ Tallboy addressed the judge. ‘Miss Bennet’s uncle is in the gallery. He can confirm that Wickham did indeed persuade Miss Bennet to elope, and that she is innocent of any prior misdemeanour.’
The prosecutor rose. ‘Milord, that is unnecessary. It is conceded that Miss Bennet acted under Wickham’s influence. However, no evidence has been adduced of coercion.’
Tallboy asked Lydia, ‘Did Mr Wickham ever threaten you?’
‘Of course not. He loved me.’
Further laughter rang from the gallery as the judge began summing up.
Elizabeth leaned towards Mr Gardiner, keeping her voice low. ‘What do you think?’
‘They’ve been deliberating ten minutes, a good sign.’
‘Surely they will see Lydia is naive, more a victim than a malefactor?’
Her uncle sighed. ‘A pity she did it twice.’
Elizabeth fell silent. Her emotions since August had oscillated between guilt and anger, but what she felt most was fear. After searching for Lydia in London, her father had returned exhausted and taken to his bed with a racking cough. Months passed and the fugitives remained at large, until an express from Mr Gardiner with the awful news that Lydia was in Newgate prison, indicted for theft. Mr Bennet was too feeble to travel. Elizabeth had come instead, hoping to raise Lydia’s morale as Mr Gardiner did his best to procure a defence.
Most unbearable of all was the thought that she, Elizabeth, could have prevented this disaster.
If she had only spoken out. Confided to her father the depravity of Wickham’s character, as revealed by Darcy’s letter.
Obsessively she daydreamed of what might have been. She recalled the day she had visited Pemberley with the Gardiners. The loveliness of the setting, a perfect blend of nature and design. Their tour with Darcy’s housekeeper, who painted such a glowing picture of her master, with a sincerity that could not be doubted.
And of this place I might have been mistress …
Afterwards, waiting for the gardener who was to conduct them round the estate, she had daydreamed of Darcy approaching from the road that led to the stables. If only they could have met again. The quarrel at Hunsford might have been overlaid by a civil conversation. He might have forgiven her harsh accusations …
But no. They had returned to the inn at Lambton, until Jane’s letters had ended their trip.
Back at Longbourn, the family were in confusion. Jane exhausted, having borne most of the stress. Mrs Bennet hysterical, blaming everyone but herself. Kitty and Mary sullen. Mr Bennet away i
n London. A succession of short notes from Gracechurch Street reported no progress.
Their disgrace could not be hidden. Neighbours called: Lady Lucas, Mrs Philips and Mrs King all commiserated, while secretly revelling at the Bennets’ fall from grace. Gossip spread of the debts Wickham had left. Everyone was wise after the event. Yes, they had always suspected something. But one could not impugn a man’s reputation without being certain …
The jury had decided. Their spokesman, in a voice tinged with sadness, read out the agreed statement.
‘Guilty, milord, on all charges. But if the court permits, we request leniency, in view of the immaturity of the accused.’
Elizabeth shivered as Lydia’s face crumpled. It was as if for the first time, the girl understood the seriousness of her situation.
‘Lydia Bennet.’ Justice le Blanc intoned his words with exaggerated clarity. ‘You are guilty of stealing a gentleman’s property after enticing him into an immoral liaison. The crime has been repeated, at least once. Under normal circumstances such offences receive the ultimate penalty. However, mindful of the jury’s appeal, I am prepared to exercise clemency. You will be taken to Newgate, where you will await transportation, on the next convict ship, for a period of fourteen years.’
2
Four years later, April 1817, London
Almack’s Assembly Rooms had changed little since Darcy had left with Georgiana and Bingley on their European tour. Blue curtains with a satin sheen hung from a ceiling high as a town house. False columns decorated the walls. The orchestra occupied a gallery ten feet above the dancers; chandeliers hung in sparkling clusters. The arena was ringed with divans and chairs, upholstered in orange and crimson.
It was Georgiana’s first London season, but she had debuted at the Apollo, in Vienna, and attended balls and soirées in Venice, Florence and Rome. From the beginning she had been in demand as a partner, not only for her demure loveliness, but for her graceful dancing. When she took the floor people watched—not only gentlemen, but ladies too.
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