Darcy's Redemption

by M. A. Sandiford

  A door creaked, and Bingley entered.

  ‘Charles! Join me in a nightcap?’

  Bingley sank into the divan and swirled the liquor in its deep glass before taking a sip.

  ‘Hits the spot, eh?’

  They sat in silence, enjoying the stillness of the dimly lit room. After a while, Bingley asked, ‘What do you make of Arethusa?’

  ‘Intelligent and sensible.’ Darcy shrugged. ‘Not as pretty as her sister.’

  ‘Still, a handsome woman.’

  Darcy looked away, recalling a phrase he had once uttered under provocation: One of the handsomest women of my acquaintance. Yes, Miss Cullum was admirable, and he would have been drawn to her—once.

  He turned back to Bingley. ‘Arethusa has a project to visit the abbey tomorrow.’

  ‘That ruin?’ Bingley looked distracted. He took a final sip and pushed his glass aside. ‘If you agree, I’d be happy to cut short our stay and return to London. Susannah is delightful, but …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She talks all the time!’ Bingley grabbed his glass, as if forgetting it was already empty, and set it aside irritably. ‘Confound it, what has happened to the fair sex? I used to find them all so agreeable.’

  Darcy smiled. ‘Do you remember the ball at Meryton? You claimed you had never seen so many pleasant girls in your life.’

  ‘I think often of those times. So jolly, so unpretentious compared with the ton. Lucases, Kings, Robinsons. Those madcap girls chasing the militia officers. The Bennets of course. Jane …’ He sighed.

  ‘If only I had left you to marry her.’

  ‘You gave bad advice in good faith. If I was fool enough to follow it, the fault is mine.’

  ‘We might have repaired the damage—but for Wickham.’

  Bingley refilled their glasses. ‘Jane Bennet has children, according to Caroline. Two boys. I don’t know where my sisters get their tittle-tattle from. The Lucases maybe.’

  ‘Elizabeth is also married, to a clergyman. I heard from Henry Mountjoy after he got back from Italy.’

  ‘I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.’ Bingley sighed. ‘Rum how things turn out. Just think, Darce, we’d have been like brothers, each married to a Bennet girl.’

  ‘We could look for another pair of sisters.’

  Bingley laughed. ‘You can have Susannah.’

  ‘I would not dream of it. She is yours.’

  ‘I don’t want to become brothers that much.’ Bingley slapped the table. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. You?’

  ‘I’ll stay a little longer.’

  Bingley whistled. ‘Surely you’re not after more botany and local history?’

  ‘My interests are wide-ranging.’

  ‘If I’m any good at guessing, they might range as far as Mademoiselle Arethusa.’

  Darcy fell silent. Bingley was right. He liked Miss Cullum and desired to know her better. Matters would run smoothly this time, he sensed. It would be a relief to escape family pressure, end the gossip in the ton, produce an heir. He could conceive no better solution. And yet, if he were honest, it felt like a defeat.

  5

  Autumn 1830, Spitalfields, London

  Evenings were the best time to work, especially with her husband away. Elizabeth had shared a modest dinner with her children before the maid put them to bed; now she sat in the study facing two stacks of papers. The first was a book review for The Lady’s Magazine; the second, a sermon on transubstantiation, to be revised for the benefit of Fredo’s Oxford friends. She needed to finish the magazine review by tomorrow so that the October issue could go to the printers. To please Fredo, however, the sermon would take precedence.

  She had begun writing for The Lady’s Magazine as a way of supplementing their income. It was a popular mixture of fiction, poetry, culture, fashion, and humour, edited by Mr John Allsop, a friend of Julia Mountjoy’s, but written almost entirely by women. Issues came out every month, priced sixpence, and sold in thousands. The remuneration was small, but Elizabeth had widened her range to include humorous pieces, such as letters from imaginary readers, and the dribs and drabs mounted up.

  After gazing longingly at the book review, Elizabeth dragged her attention to the sermon. The task as Frederick defined it was to make fair copy, as if he needed merely a duplicate in neat handwriting. In fact, his texts were so obscure that they needed rewriting, not copying—and not only through clumsiness with words.

  Elizabeth was puzzling over the final paragraphs when there was a tap on the door, and the maid entered.

  ‘Yes, Harriet?’

  ‘Pardon, ma’am, Miss Grace is asking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s afraid. A nightmare.’

  Elizabeth replaced her pen and ran upstairs. The night nursery was at the back, remote from the bustle of Commercial Street. Heavy curtains and a thick rug gave it a soft aura. Grace perched on the edge of her bed, head in hands, facing her brother’s cot. Her fair hair and angelic features filled Elizabeth with tenderness, reminding her of Jane as a child.

  ‘Dearest, what is the matter?’ She sat beside the little girl and put an arm around her.

  ‘I was scared. By the moth.’

  ‘Moth?’ Elizabeth looked round the room.

  ‘Outside.’ Grace pointed at the window.

  ‘The curtains are drawn.’

  ‘A monster, this big.’ She raised both her hands. ‘Flapping its wings, because it was cross with me.’

  ‘Ah, a dream moth.’ Elizabeth smiled, and reached for paper and pencil. ‘They can be quite troublesome, but did you know, they’re afraid of teeth?’ She drew a circle, added eyes and nose, and handed Grace the pencil. ‘Try!’

  The simple task calmed the little girl. Elizabeth opened the curtains to place the drawing on the sill. She glanced fondly at Robert, who had slept through the whole affair.

  Marriage had not been entirely felicitous, but it had its compensations …

  Elizabeth squeezed her temples as she tried to make sense of Fredo’s concluding section.

  Gathering together what has been said, it is, in brief, contended, that Popish transubstantiation stands in contrast, not only with our Protestant reading of what is given to us in the Gospels, but to the very scripture itself, and the doctrines set out in clarification of it, by the Ancient Fathers of the Romish Church. For inasmuch as we do not question, whether the Body and Blood of Christ be absent from the Sacrament, after consecration of the Bread and Wine, but in such form that these victuals are not utterly destroyed, but elevated to a nobler dignity, through the agency of God’s infinite power …

  Even as the words swirled like leaves in a breeze, she understood what they must mean: she had read not only this sermon, but many similar works. The subtext was that Protestants upheld traditional Catholic doctrines that later popes had distorted. Bread and wine did not vanish, replaced by Christ’s body and blood. Bread and body were present, in some more subtle mystical union.

  Elizabeth sighed, irritated that she could not strike out the paragraph and begin again. She had tried once to express Sibley’s ideas in her own words, but stated clearly, they sounded ingenuous. The illusion of depth required a measure of obscurity. The problem was to revise the original just enough to provide a glimpse of plausible meaning, like a tree seen dimly through fog as compared to one entirely hidden.

  She heard the front door, and shivered: Fredo was earlier than usual, and two paragraphs remained unfinished. In the hallway she ran to greet him.

  ‘Benvenuto, Fredo! You’ve made good time.’

  He stooped to kiss her forehead. ‘How are the little ones?’

  ‘Tucked up in bed.’ She wondered whether to tell him about Grace’s moth, but decided better not: like St Paul, Fredo had put away childish things.

  ‘And the sermon? Is your copy ready for checking?’

  ‘Almost.’ She took his arm. ‘Why not relax with a glass of wine while I finish off? I can ask Harriet to bring ham an
d pickles if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I was hoping to find the copy completed, Elizabeth. I realise you have other demands on your time. But serious work should always take priority over frippery.’

  ‘Indeed, dear. It is because I take the work so seriously that I perform it carefully, to ensure that every nuance of meaning is preserved.’

  ‘Of course.’ He patted her hand indulgently.

  Elizabeth suppressed a chuckle as she left her husband and sought the maid. She had evolved a technique for coping with his sanctimonious disapproval. It consisted in lacing conciliatory responses with a drop of acid, such as praise exaggerated to the point of absurdity. Elizabeth was amazed how completely Fredo was blind to her irony: the possibility that she was teasing never seemed to occur to him. It was cruel in a way, but helped her bear criticism without quarrelling.

  Marriage had proved a mixed blessing. Having met the Sibleys during their tour, she had assumed they were well off. It transpired instead that the baronet had loaned the money, which Fredo would pay back once he took over the living. They moved into a terraced house near Spitalfields market and Christ’s Church, where Fredo was rector. Not a fashionable district, Spitalfields embraced poor housing in the East End as well as prosperous traders in fruit and vegetables. Sibley employed two curates, who threw themselves into the work with zeal. He fulfilled his duties minimally, but was not resigned to a life of ministry. Theology was his passion; he took every chance to visit like-minded academics at Oxford University.

  Their early years were harmonious and rewarding, on the whole. Elizabeth found ways of helping in the parish, and soon became a popular figure. Managing their modest household was straightforward. She kept in touch with Julia, through whose good offices she became a writer for The Lady’s Magazine. She was blessed with two lovely children. With her help, Fredo was emerging as a respected voice in High Church theology.

  The main anxieties in her life came from family—her own, and more directly, Fredo’s. Having lost her income as Julia’s companion Elizabeth could send only crumbs to her mother and sisters; luckily, Jane’s husband made up the difference. Fredo had helped until his father died and the baronetcy passed to his older brother. This proved a double blow: not only did young Nicholas lack the old baronet’s generosity, but he shared Martha’s mistrust of the siren that had bewitched Fredo.

  The issue came to a head in 1828 when Lydia’s term of transportation expired. From notes that arrived every few years at Gracechurch Street they knew she was alive. But the expense of paying her fare would fall entirely on Mr Gardiner—unless Fredo could help. Reaction from the Sibleys was dismissive. To have an in-law in a penal colony was disgrace enough: better that she stayed there. Fredo, to Elizabeth’s distress, shared this attitude. A further note from Lydia resolved the question. She had married a settler named Mr Cobb. They would stay in Australia.

  There followed an uneasy truce with the Sibleys. Lydia was never mentioned. At gatherings on their Essex estate, Elizabeth stayed in the background while Martha and Lady Sibley cooed over Grace and Robert. She understood Fredo’s dilemma, straddled between family and wife. All she wished was that now and then, in private at least, he would take her side.

  The copy was complete. Elizabeth allowed herself a glass of wine while Fredo studied each sheet. Tomorrow would be a better day, she thought. She would have time to finish her review for the magazine, before an outing to see Don Giovanni at the Haymarket.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ Fredo set the stack of papers on one side. ‘Better late than never!’

  ‘You are happy with my changes?’

  ‘One or two errors. But overall, satisfactory.’ He studied her expectantly. ‘What did you make of it?’

  The usual phrases came into Elizabeth’s mind: masterful contribution, deep insight, and the like. But the blatant flattery gave her pause: suppose that one day he saw through the irony? Was it not possible to treat her husband as an adult capable of rational discussion? On impulse she sought a response that would be both polite and true.

  ‘I think it summarises accurately the positions different denominations have adopted over a divisive issue.’

  He stared at her. ‘That is all?’

  ‘Why should more be required?’

  ‘My aim is not merely to summarise! Can you not see? It is to advance knowledge.’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘I intended no criticism, dear. It is a fine piece of work.’

  He leaned forward. ‘You do not see the originality?’

  ‘Perhaps you can explain it.’

  He launched into a confused recapitulation of his argument, which remained what it was before.

  ‘Do you see now?’

  Elizabeth hesitated. She should have replied, Yes, it is all clear. But the words stuck in her mouth, and instead she said, ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘This is worrying indeed. If you do not appreciate the originality of the work, you cannot have understood it.’

  This was too much. Coldly she said, ‘You may be right Fredo, in which case I had better give up my role as copy editor. No doubt you can find an assistant whose level of comprehension is superior to mine.’

  He flinched, and she felt a stir of triumph as he floundered for a reply.

  ‘Let us not excite ourselves.’ He picked up the decanter. ‘More wine?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Perhaps I exaggerated. You know how much I value your contribution. Shall I come to your room?’

  ‘I’m very tired, as I said.’

  Irritation flickered on his face, but he made no reply.

  The Haymarket Opera House, also known as the King’s Theatre, stood on a corner a short way from Pall Mall. A grand construction with columns and arches, its facade boasted an arcade where people met up before the performance. The day had gone well, after Fredo’s piece on transubstantiation had won the approval of the Bishop of London. Elizabeth was beginning to grasp the political significance of the positions Fredo was adopting. By impressing the bishop, he could contend for the prestigious post of prebendary at the cathedral.

  They had a box on the first tier, and as the orchestra tuned up, Elizabeth ran her eye across the grander boxes opposite. No sign of Julia and Henry, but a couple taking their seats made her jump. The gentleman was tall, with a familiar statuesque bearing; the lady slender, fair, dressed in exquisite taste.

  She was almost sure. The man was Darcy.

  She had heard from Julia that he was married at last, to a lady from Suffolk. Arethusa Darcy was intelligent, by all accounts, transformed from bluestocking to silk stocking now that her husband had enticed her into society. Elizabeth drew back into the shadows.

  And of this place I might have been mistress …

  Pemberley was Arethusa’s now, while Elizabeth made do with a terraced house in Spitalfields, and a tetchy self-important man whose ambition exceeded his ability.

  A corrosive surge of jealousy possessed her. She took a deep breath. Fredo was not so bad. The children were lovely. In any case, Darcy had flaws aplenty.

  She closed her eyes as the overture started. The opera was a morality tale according to Fredo, but she cared little about the story: it was the music that she loved. Every so often she could not resist a glance at Darcy’s box. She wondered whether he had seen her: if so, he gave no sign of it. His wife, on closer inspection, looked tired. Darcy was attentive, pouring wine, procuring an extra cushion, with a gentleness that Elizabeth found moving.

  Fredo, still in a high good humour, had noticed none of this. During the interval Elizabeth remained in her seat as Darcy left arm in arm with his wife. Apparently Mrs Darcy really was indisposed, for they did not return.

  6

  June 1836, Hadfield Farm, near Meryton

  Jane had married well, Elizabeth thought. Arnold Hadfield was a cheerful man, if distinguished more by brawn than elegance: no Charles Bingley. But he was practical, a good farmer who got on with everyone from landlord to customers to wife and
children. Their older boys helped on the farm; a third boy was more bookish, and protective of his two small sisters. The lively household centred on the huge kitchen, where Jane presided with the help of a maid, baking bread and cakes and pies for the benefit of family and farmworkers.

  Elizabeth had brought along Grace and Robert, taking advantage of Sibley’s lengthy stay in Oxford. They had travelled with the Gardiners, alone now that their children had left home. The farmhouse absorbed the large party, Jane’s brood cramming into a single bedroom. Mary had a room too: Jane had offered her the role of governess after Mrs Bennet’s passing—a happy solution since with Kitty married to a merchant seaman, Mary would have been left by herself in the Meryton cottage.

  ‘Now Lizzy.’ Jane bustled round the kitchen, perpetually busy. ‘You must try a cheese scone.’

  ‘I have eaten too much already.’ Elizabeth flinched as two Hadfield children scampered past. ‘You promised me a ramble.’

  ‘I should collect the eggs …’

  ‘The eggs can stay where they are.’

  Jane gave instructions to the maid, and they walked through the farmyard to a bridle path between the fields. As always, Elizabeth was struck by her sister’s altered appearance. The angel that had entranced Charles Bingley was now a tanned, strong-looking woman who oversaw her domain with confidence. But her beauty endured, as did her kindness. The children were boisterous, but leniency had not spoiled them.

  ‘Did you pass by Longbourn church?’ Jane asked.

  Elizabeth nodded: she had visited Mrs Bennet’s tomb, next to their father’s. ‘Poor mother. She was so close to achieving her ambition after Lydia and Kitty married.’

  ‘I fear Mary will remain a spinster,’ Jane said. ‘But she is happy looking after the children, and useful too.’

  ‘Good for her.’ Elizabeth grimaced. ‘The benefits of marriage are overstated.’

  ‘Now Lizzy!’ Jane laughed, then became serious. ‘You are referring to your own case, I fear.’