Conceit & Concealment: A Pride & Prejudice Variation

by Abigail Reynolds

Darcy shook his head. “No. Lamarque has frightened the people of London with his spies, senseless arrests, and hangings, and as a result, many people who had grudgingly accepted French rule are now muttering about revolt. Desmarais is worried Lamarque’s behavior may set off a rebellion.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Who can say? It is true there is more unrest now than there was a year ago before Lamarque arrived. I am hardly an impartial judge, though, since he is the one holding you here.”

  Elizabeth bent her head. “No,” she said quietly. “But that is the least of his crimes. At least I am alive and can be with you on occasion.”

  ***

  Molly descended on Elizabeth as soon as she emerged onto the quarterdeck. “Why have you been hiding in your cabin all morning? Usually you are outside long before I am. I hope this means you have been writing.” She struck a dramatic pose. “I am dying to know what happens next to Princess Rosalinda.”

  Elizabeth held up her hands. “I fear I have failed you. Last night's dinner does not seem to have agreed with me, so I have been keeping to my bunk.”

  Molly eyed her dubiously. “It seems as if many dinners here have disagreed with you of late.” She laughed. “Or should I perhaps blame your virile husband for your suddenly sensitive palate?”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Surely Molly must be mistaken. It had been but a month since her wedding, and with Darcy's visits limited to once a week, it was highly unlikely. “I think it is the cook's fault,” she said firmly.

  Molly pointed a finger at her. “Then you have no excuse not to write the next chapter. You cannot leave poor Princess Rosalinda in the hayloft forever, not with her evil uncle in pursuit.”

  It was fortunate that Molly could not guess that Princess Rosalinda's adventures had not sprang purely from Elizabeth's imagination. “Very well, I shall do my best to get poor Rosalinda out of the hayloft today.”

  Molly dropped her voice. “The superior ladies are listening. They may call your story foolishness, but they cannot wait for the next chapter either.” She gestured with her head towards the two other hostages.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Only because they are so very bored since their fancy friends were released.” Both she and Molly had attempted to tease one of the sailors into confiding why two of the hostages had been released, but the Frenchmen were either ignorant of the reasons or unusually closemouthed. Not that it would make a difference in her own case since, unlike the others, she had committed a crime, but it might mean hope for Molly.

  And Elizabeth wanted Molly to leave, even though she would miss her new friend desperately. Staying on the Neptune was as much of a death sentence as being arrested for treason had been. It just would not happen as soon. It might take years, but sooner or later the Loyalists would rise up against the French and, as Frederica had said, their very first step would have to be destroying the two warships in the Thames. Elizabeth had never told Molly about their fate. After all, what good would it do for her to know there was a sword at their throat?

  Molly crossed her arms. “I suppose I cannot object to sharing Princess Rosalinda with them – as long as I get to read it first.”

  Secretly flattered by her friend’s insistence, Elizabeth said, “I promise you will always get it first.”

  ***

  Elizabeth seated herself gingerly in a gilded chair. After three months aboard the Neptune, the ground on land seemed to be moving under her, and after months of seeing nothing but the simple lines of the ship where everything was wood, rope, or water, the colorful ornamentation of Carlton House hurt her eyes.

  From behind his desk General Desmarais waved away the guards who had escorted her from the ship. “I hope you do not object to my wife joining us since you promised this was not a political matter.”

  “Not at all.” In fact, she was grateful for the other woman's presence.

  “Good. I value her opinion in personal matters.”

  Mme. Desmarais smiled at her. “What my husband means is that he cannot bear a woman's tears, and I am here to defend him if you should happen to start to cry.”

  “I must apologize in advance, then. I will do my best, but of late, almost everything makes me cry. It means nothing; yesterday I cried over a bird in flight.” Elizabeth strove for a light tone.

  Mme. Desmarais’s eyes widened. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”

  The general's brows drew together as he studied his wife. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Let us see what Mrs. Darcy has to say.”

  “Very well.” He did not appear satisfied by her answer. “How may I be of assistance to you, Mrs. Darcy?”

  Elizabeth swallowed hard. “Thank you for agreeing to see me. I do not know if you can help me or not. I have a problem, and I wished to ask you about it before I speak to Mr. Darcy.”

  Desmarais's eyebrows crept up. “Darcy does not know about this problem? Am I expected to keep it in confidence?”

  She dropped her eyes. “I am not in a position to dictate terms.”

  “Even more curious. May I ask what this problem is?”

  “It appears I am increasing,” said Elizabeth bluntly, the ever present tears starting to well in her eyes. Somehow she managed to blink them back.

  The general smiled. “You are enceinte? That is not a problem, but a cause for celebration.”

  “For my husband, perhaps, who will be glad to have a son or daughter,” said Elizabeth. “Less so for me, since presumably my baby will be taken from me.”

  “Oh, dear,” murmured Mme. Desmarais.

  Desmarais picked up his quill and absently tapped it on the edge of the desk, once, twice, thrice. “That is indeed a problem.”

  Elizabeth plunged ahead. “I know there is little to be done about it. My concern is for Mr. Darcy. When I tell him, he will be unhappy about the situation and will want to find a way to change things. I imagine he will fret about it and eventually he will turn up on your doorstep in the hope you could help him. I wish to spare him those distressing days and the disappointment by telling him right away precisely what we can and cannot expect. That is what I hope you will be able tell me.”

  “What information are you seeking?” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Will the baby be taken from me as soon as he is born, or will he be permitted to remain with me for a short period of time? He will have to live with his father, I know, but will he be permitted to visit me?” She managed to speak with no more than a tremor in her voice.

  Mme. Desmarais silently pressed a cup of tea into her hands.

  That small kindness was more than Elizabeth could bear. Turning her face away, she covered her eyes with one hand. “I am sorry,” she choked out. “I will not take any more of your time. Perhaps you could send me your response.”

  General Desmarais said slowly, “You do understand, I hope, that you are not my prisoner, but Lamarque's. As such I have only a limited amount of say over your situation.”

  Intent only on escape, she bobbed her head and stood up. Suddenly burning pain engulfed her hand. Good Lord, she had scalded herself with the tea! Quickly she set down the teacup and blew on her hand to cool it, but the pain intensified.

  Mme. Desmarais took her hand and examined it with a tutting sound. “Mon cher, pray be so kind as to send for some cool water. You may leave this to me. I will take care of her.”

  The sound of receding footsteps indicated the general's departure.

  “Your poor hand!” said Madame. “I am so sorry. I should not have poured the tea when it was still so hot. Do sit down, my dear, and you may cry as much as you like now. I did the same thing when I was enceinte. Everything made me cry.”

  “You are very kind,” said Elizabeth woodenly. “It was entirely my fault for being so clumsy.”

  “Nonsense. Oh, here is the water. Put your hand in this bowl and it will feel better.”

  “I should return to the ship.” Even though the water did ease the pain.

&n
bsp; “If you wish.” Mme. Desmarais sounded sad. “I think you would be more comfortable if you allowed me to put a tincture and bandages on it, but it is up to you. I only wish, for Darcy's sake, that you did not hate us quite so much.”

  Startled, Elizabeth looked up. “I do not hate you, only what you represent. I want my country to be free.”

  “Will hating us make that more likely? No, do not bother to answer. We are none of us free. Your king and your Parliament worked for their own best interest, not yours, and it is the same in every country. Your king is more German than English; is a French emperor so much worse?”

  Elizabeth stared down at the reddened skin of her hand. “A French emperor who sends our young men off to die in foreign lands for the greater glory of France? Who taxes us down to our last penny to pay for his army of occupation?”

  “Those things are unfair, I agree, but it is all a matter of degrees. Did not your Parliament send off young men to die? When we first came here, the poorhouses were full of people on the brink of starvation, all so the taxes could pay for ridiculous buildings like this one. It is very beautiful, but me, I look at the gilt and the painted ceilings and wonder how many Englishmen suffered and died so your Prince Regent could feast his eyes on it. In France we have at least tried to stop these abuses, but that also made England our enemy.” She handed a small cloth to Elizabeth. “Here; you may dry your hand, and I will let you return to the ship unmolested by my lectures.”

  Elizabeth lifted her hand from the water, but did not take the towel. “Mr. Darcy has said many of the same things,” she said in a low voice. “And you are right that our government was far from perfect. I should not judge people simply by the country they were born in, and you and your husband have been very generous to me.”

  Mme. Desmarais said more briskly, as if she regretted her earlier outburst, “We strive to do our best in a very imperfect world. My husband will do what he can for you.”

  “I know it cannot be much.” Elizabeth hesitated before meeting Mme. Desmarais's gaze. “If you are still willing to bandage my burn, I would appreciate it.” Would the Frenchwoman accept her peace offering?

  “I am glad. Those miasmas on the river cannot be healthy for injuries.” Mme. Desmarais gestured to a servant. “Bandages and oil of lavender, if you please.”

  When the servant left, the Frenchwoman said, “I would like to ask you something, just between the two of us, woman to woman. I cannot promise anything, but if my husband should happen to find somewhere you could be held with your child, would you be willing to give your parole not to attempt to escape?”

  If her hand had not hurt so much, Elizabeth might have laughed. “Madame, just between us, woman to woman, I know how to swim. I am rather good at it. I could have slipped over the side of the Neptune any moonless night and swum to shore, but I know if I did, Mr. Darcy would suffer for it. Yes, I would give my parole.”

  “Good. Do not get your hopes up, but I will see if anything can be done. I do not like this idea of separating a mother and child.”

  Tears once again welled in Elizabeth's eyes. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  ***

  The young naval lieutenant came to the ship’s sitting room with a message. “Mrs. Darcy, you are wanted on deck.”

  “I am?” What was the meaning of this unusual request? “Who wants me there?”

  “A soldier.” He shrugged, as if to indicate the unimportance of any member of the army rather than the navy.

  Elizabeth put aside the latest sheet of The Tales of Princess Rosalinda. “Very well.”

  “I will come, too,” said Molly. Suspicion flashed in her eyes.

  “As you wish.”

  Elizabeth followed the lieutenant up to the quarterdeck. The morning fog had finally blown off, though it remained chilly.

  A blue-coated officer bowed to her and held out a letter. “From General Desmarais.”

  Her heart started to beat faster. Was the news good or bad? The envelope was sealed, though letters were regularly opened and read before being delivered. Special rules must apply to the general. She broke the seal with her finger to find a letter written in a neat, feminine hand that must have belonged to Madame Desmarais.

  My dear Mrs. Darcy,

  My husband informs me he has made alternate arrangements which may suit you better after your child is born. You would be in his custody and would have your own suite of rooms at Carlton House. You would have the freedom of the gardens and of Carlton House itself, except on those occasions when formal events are taking place. I am sorry to say, on the insistence of M. Lamarque, these same limitations would apply to your child. Your husband would, as always, have the freedom to come and go as he pleases in Carlton House, but could not take up residence. Should he at some point wish to remove your child from Carlton House, you would be required to return to the ship and to—

  A deafening blast knocked Elizabeth off her feet. Fire rained down around her.

  Chapter 19

  Darcy handed his hat and gloves to his butler. “Is Miss Georgiana in the drawing room?” He had purposely kept his visit to his solicitor short to reduce her anxiety.

  “No, sir. Your aunt has taken her out.”

  Odd. They had planned to be at home all day when he left. “Where did they go?”

  “They asked for the carriage to take them to Carlton House, sir.”

  And yet more odd. While they had called on Madame Desmarais once before, they had waited for an invitation. One did not simply drop in to Carlton House. “I see.”

  “Mr. Christopher was here for a short time, but he had to leave.”

  Kit had been there? His brother had only returned to Darcy House twice, each time on a mission. What had he wanted today?

  A foreboding seized him. “Was he here before the ladies left?”

  “Yes, sir. They did not decide to go until just after his visit.”

  Kit had come, then Lady Matlock had decided to call at Carlton House. Could she possibly be taking his place in Frederica’s plan to distract Desmarais?

  No. She might do it, but she would not take Georgiana with her. That would be far too dangerous, unless she had some purpose of her own as she so often did.

  Darcy snatched back his hat and gloves. “I am going out again.”

  Most likely Lady Matlock had gone to attempt to obtain some sort of information for Kit and nothing would happen to Georgiana, but he could not be sure. And there had been some odd groupings of men on the streets as he rode home. If there was any possibility that this was the long-awaited uprising, he had to get Georgiana out of Carlton House before she ended up with her head in a noose.

  ***

  “Darcy, what a lovely surprise,” said Mme. Desmarais. “Your aunt had not mentioned you would be joining us.”

  Darcy shot a poisonous glance at Lady Matlock, who looked as imperturbable as ever. “She did not know it. When I discovered she and Georgiana had gone to pay a call here, I decided to join them.”

  And just in time, after what he had seen in the streets, now that he was paying attention. Men loitering and refusing to meet his gaze, lowered voices, and almost no children on the streets. Carlton House had less than half the usual number of guards, and there were few servants in the halls. It was going to happen. And the worst part was that he could not see a safe way to extract Georgiana from the situation. If the streets were on the verge of erupting, she would be safer here than on the streets. What in God’s name had his aunt been thinking to bring her along?

  Georgiana wore her half-wit face, but her eyes darted from side to side. No, this was not a social call.

  Mme. Desmarais said, “Would you care for a slice of almond tart, Darcy? It is the one you are so fond of.”

  “That would be pleasant.” Darcy doubted he could eat a bite, but it would look odd if he refused it, especially as Mme. Desmarais still worried about whether he ate enough. “No one can match your cook’s tarts.”

  “More for you, m
on cher?” the Frenchwoman asked her husband, who shook his head brusquely. “Pay no attention to him, Darcy. He is fretting because of some nonsense about a fire at the barracks.”

  That explained the paucity of soldiers guarding Carlton House. “I hope it will be easily extinguished.”

  “Mme. Desmarais, before Darcy arrived, you were telling us about the new fashions from Paris,” said Lady Matlock. “Are they truly wearing laced bodices now? How very medieval.”

  “The laces are more decorative than anything. They only gather some of the fabric in the front to create an illusion of depth. The gentlemen like it, of course, since it does tighten the bodice.”

  Lady Matlock said, “I would not wish to see Georgiana wearing such a thing.”

  “Of course not! She is much too young for that sort of fashion.”

  Darcy forced himself to take a bite of almond tart, every muscle in his body tense. What was Lady Matlock planning?

  Lady Matlock kept the conversation going as a church bell began to toll in the distance, joined a few minutes later by another, then another. Was that the signal? He prayed Elizabeth was safely below decks away from any fighting. The Loyalists might already be boarding the ships to prevent the cannons from being shot.

  Now the church bells were coming from all directions. Somewhere outside a man shouted. Darcy could not make out the words since the room faced the garden. Desmarais frowned and signaled the footman standing by the door, who bowed smartly and departed.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Mme. Desmarais.

  Her husband replied, “Unlikely, my dear. A rabble-rouser, no doubt.”

  Lady Matlock said placidly, “It is not unusual for more than one church to ring the bells if someone well-respected had left this world. I hope it is no one I know.”

  “I hope so!” cried Mme. Desmarais.

  Now the shouting was closer, and a man’s voice bellowed, “The King is dead! Long live Queen Charlotte!” A volley of gunfire followed.

  Mme. Desmarais froze halfway through lifting her tea cup.

  Desmarais jumped to his feet. “Pray pardon me. I must leave you.”