by Massey, Beth
My William was with me every step of the way as I wrote this very personal story. He helped me with my research—suggesting books with information I needed. His knowledge of Irish history and music was invaluable. He acted as my cold reader, though because he is legally blind, I had to do the actual reading and he did the listening. In the early days of our courtship, he had entertained me with poetry and song. His suggestions for snippets to include were priceless. Those who know him will see bits of him in my Dr. Wilder, my Mr. Bennet and my Colonel Fitzwilliam. Thank you, Bill.
PART ONE
LONDON, FEBRUARY 1806
1 SUCH PEOPLE
Elizabeth Bennet leaned eagerly toward the railing, hair tumbling forward, her face a study in joy. The chance to attend a performance of The Tempest with her aunt and uncle had captured her imagination beyond all the other delights London had previously offered. As her eyes darted about, taking in all the sights, a moan of delight escaped her. She was in a box hired by Sir Gareth and Lady Hughes, her Aunt Gardiner’s friend, surrounded by the haut ton—the very ones whose goings and comings were chronicled in the London newspapers and so often became the gossip of the ladies of Meryton. She could not wait to describe the spectacle to those back home.
Shakespeare’s words, ‘How many goodly creatures are there here!’ dominated her thoughts as she surveyed the other boxes. Such people as she had never seen—glorious women in glittering gowns and handsome men—some like peacocks even more splendidly dressed than the women on their arms were a feast for her eyes. She wondered if there could be any dukes and duchesses present, or could that elegant couple, just there across the way, be a marquis and his marchioness? And that stiff looking man with them, who could he be, and why was he frowning? The, oh so elegant one, the one she imagined to be a marquis seemed to be smiling at her and gave her a slight nod of his head. Warmth suffused her cheeks in a blush. Just at that moment the performance began. Excited by the purpose of her presence, she turned her attention to the stage.
An unconscious licking of her lips as if she was anticipating savouring something delicious was quickly supplanted by an array of emotions—smiles of delight, hearty laughs and occasionally even a slight pant of fear. Elizabeth had read Shakespeare’s play, revelling in the tale of the castaway Prospero and his daughter numerous times and knew much of it by heart. Despite advance knowledge of the plot, she shuddered in revulsion upon seeing Caliban for the first time, while simultaneously being drawn to him. It was the depiction of Miranda, however, with whom she was most taken. The actress playing her was a small woman with long brown curls burnished with fiery copper highlights like Elizabeth’s own hair. Portia had always been her favourite of Shakespeare’s heroines, but tonight, this character, on the brink of a great adventure, stole her heart.
In reflecting on her own papa’s similarity to Prospero, Lizzy decided Miranda’s father seemed more responsible in giving his child what was her due—of course, he had only one daughter, not five as did Mr Bennet—not to mention, he was the rightful Duke of Milan and not a country gentleman whose small estate, Longbourn, was entailed on the male line. Besides, Prospero knew magic whereas Mr Bennet’s greatest accomplishment appeared when delivering humorous barbs at the expense of others.
As Elizabeth thought of her papa’s most pleasurable diversion, his favourite twisting of a popular cant expression came flooding back. The recollection caused her to brush a wayward curl back before covering her mouth with her hand to stifle a giggle. Papa had said, ‘My daughters, and my wife, are quite lovely creatures.’ A slight, mischievous glimmer would always steal across his face as he dryly delivered the droll second half of his pronouncement—‘though, unfortunately, they are all guilty of having more hair than wit… Ah, but what beautiful hair each has!’ Her particular enjoyment from these words of mockery came because, on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday, he had made the jest and condescended to exempt her by adding, ‘Lately, my Lizzy has been showing a bit more insight, but at her age it could be just a passing fancy. Once she experiences her first flirtation, I fear she may lose all her accumulated wisdom.’ Lizzy wondered whether Mr Pope would think she was being damned with faint praise by her sardonic parent.
Her thoughts jumped to other words she and her sisters had heard him pronounce for as long as she could remember. ‘Remain chaste and try not to be too silly.’ Had this admonition been more serious in its intent? The first time he had voiced this cautionary decree, she had needed to ask him to explain the meaning of ‘remain chaste.’ His answer had been filled with satire, as was his wont. Finally, he had laughed and told her she would learn from her mother soon enough.
On stage, Prospero was revealing everything to Miranda—the treachery of his brother, how they came to be on the island, the source of his powers and his part in the recent shipwreck. His actions gave Lizzy hope that one day her father might present his wife and daughters with a plan that would protect them in the event of his demise. What a great comfort that would be for her mother. In Mr Bennet’s reticence to disclose information, and in owning a prodigious library, he resembled Prospero. Though Lizzy had been encouraged to read his books, her papa had offered little aid in applying knowledge or explaining how it helped in her quest to live up to his expectations—if he even had any expectations for her. As she watched Miranda converse with Prospero, the memory of her father teaching her French through reading Perrault’s fairy tales brought a smile. Le Petit Chaperon Rouge contained the essence of her understanding of remaining chaste. She silently mouthed, ‘Stay away from the big bad wolf.’
The motherless Miranda was spared the challenge of trying to please two parents with disparate agendas. Mrs Bennet’s goal was to find husbands for her daughters, as soon as may be. To her, it was the only way to guarantee their economic safety and to protect the family’s good name from the possible loss of their virtue. Prospero must have had similar fears for Miranda. She remembered his caution that would be spoken later in the play. The ‘virgin-knot’ must remain unbroken until the wedding has been officially solemnized. Elizabeth became lost in the contemplation of how the breaking would be accomplished and what sensations she would experience. Prospero and Miranda began to berate Caliban for being ungrateful for what they had given and taught him. A stab of empathy for that poor misshapen being gripped her.
Lizzy’s time to endure her mother’s relentless pressure to start the husband hunt had begun with her birthday in December—the same one that had brought on her father’s praise. At home in Hertfordshire, she had chafed at her mother’s obsession; but as she watched the performance taking place on the stage, she wondered whether perhaps there might be a Ferdinand for her. Was she being silly to imagine herself feeling intensely for another? From her experience, most marriages did not seem to be about ‘such stuff as dreams are made on.’ Still, there might be some slim possibility that she would find someone who would love her ardently and free her from a mundane life of gossip, embroidery, and the four and twenty families that constituted Meryton society.
Elizabeth shook her head as she reflected on her nonsensical musings. The truth was that Mr Bennet, unlike Prospero, knew no magic, and Elizabeth would never be loved by, or even acquainted with, a prince or a duke. She, nor any of her sisters, would ever even participate in the Season here in London. She sighed, no, in all likelihood they would never be seen by such men as those who populated storybooks. The frowning man across the way was looking at their box with an expression of concern. Her negative thoughts became replaced by other possibilities. If Tom had not died, Jane would have married a baronet. And, did not she, Elizabeth, sit in the box of Sir Gareth Hughes, who was also a baronet? Lizzy chuckled at how rapidly her mind leapt to imagine a fairy tale life. But her face fell with her next thoughts. Mr Bennet’s habit of locking himself in his library—shirking his responsibility for his daughters’ conduct and future—did not bode well for them achieving anything more than the most ordinary of lives.
Her fath
er’s pleasure came from his books, his port, his tobacco and his delight in making sly cynical comments about the foibles of those around him. In contrast, her mother’s single-minded pursuit for her daughters’ matrimonial achievements—even though most were too young to wed—did not seem to provide her much pleasure at all. Mrs Bennet was forever complaining about her nerves; and ridiculing her anxiety then became a primary source of Mr Bennet’s entertainment. If only God had given them a son, perhaps they would not have been so much at odds.
Lizzy’s frustration with her mama’s nonsensical ways had drawn her closer to her papa, but still she could not condone his behaviour. She felt it improper to demean another. When she would indulge in doing so with her father, she would later in the privacy of her bedchamber chastise herself for unbecoming conduct. Her Uncle Gardiner never spoke disparagingly of her Aunt Margaret or their children. Still, Papa had rewarded her affection and collaboration by teaching her to read at three and play chess at four—just as Prospero had taught Miranda. In the last two years, Lizzy had repaid her father for his kindness by becoming his eyes. As his sight gradually diminished, she had begun reading to him as well as helping him with his accounts and correspondence.
In her absence, Lizzy had secured her sister Mary’s agreement to aid their father. In return, she would stand in solidarity with Mary’s desire to delay her coming out past her fifteenth birthday. Elizabeth wondered how her next youngest sister and her papa were getting on. She hoped that Mr Bennet was treating his most serious daughter with kindness, not torturing her with his sarcasm. A vision of the two of them bickering caused her to put her hand to her mouth to stifle a snicker. Her Aunt Gardiner directed a quizzical look at Lizzy; and, duly chastised, her niece vowed to concentrate on the performance below. Ariel was playing music to soothe the savage breasts of Prospero’s usurpers.
By now, her sister would certainly be at odds over Papa’s choices for reading material. Poor soul, Mary would need the aid of a talented sprite like Ariel if she attempted to persuade her father to choose sermons over novels. With a slight shake of her head—pray her aunt would think her gesture in revulsion of Antonio’s cruel plot—she owned that somehow the third Bennet daughter had managed to reach nearly fourteen years of life without a glimmer of a sense of humour. Even as a young child, Mary had often disparaged their mother’s need to gossip. She was unlike either their father or their mother, and she had no sister as her best friend—the way Lizzy had always had Jane and Kitty had Lydia. Elizabeth resolved to pay more attention to her middle sister when she returned to Longbourn.
Elizabeth’s mind drifted to the recent disagreement that had consumed her thoughts before she had been offered sanctuary in London by her aunt and uncle. Below Prospero cast a spell and she wondered what it would be like to have the power to conjure and mystify. Could she then find a way to calm her poor mother’s fears?
Silently laughing at her nonsensical thoughts, she returned to imagining a handsome and wealthy Ferdinand who would sweep her away from Longbourn to an exciting brave new world. Perhaps, it would be better if Jane caught his eye. The kind and considerate eldest Bennet daughter would be the most likely to share her good fortune with her sisters. Besides, she was quite the loveliest of the five—though it was difficult to tell at ten exactly how little Lydia would turn out—she was dark and lively in contrast to Jane’s pale serene beauty. Lizzy, Kitty and Mary were variations on a theme with similar hair and eyes but differing profoundly in personality.
Even with Jane’s face and figure, entering into an advantageous marriage would not be easily accomplished. They were practically without dowries as each had only one fifth of Mrs Bennet’s original five thousand pounds. With such a small inducement for matrimony, they were not even going to be the first choice for neighbourhood men in the marriage market much less a wayfaring stranger. Young Thomas Trent would have been the exception; he and Jane had loved each other since they were practically in their cradles. Nothing would have kept them apart except what did; he had died of a trifling cold at fifteen. Elizabeth dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Thinking of Tom and Jane always brought tears. It was even more tragic than Romeo and Juliet because it had really happened.
Lizzy felt an arm slip through hers in response to her distress. Aunt Gardiner was such a compassionate creature. Elizabeth would be hard pressed to come up with a plausible excuse for the antics of drunken sailors bringing her to tears. That thought alone brought her out of her sadness, and she turned her mind back to the present. She noticed the dour man she had observed before lifted the hand of the woman next to him and kissed it. It seemed such a simple loving gesture. Lizzy realized she had been wrong about who was the husband. It was not her handsome imagined marquis—the man who had smiled at her—but the stern man, who had directed a concerned glance in her direction. First impressions were not always correct. But the thought that the pleasant man who had acknowledged her might not be married brought on a grin and another blush. How wondrous to be a marchioness.
Her gaze returned to the players. She was here in London enjoying The Tempest thanks to her aunt and uncle. Elizabeth had long been a favourite of the Gardiners, and they had proposed a solution to the growing animosity between mother and daughter that pleased both Mrs Bennet and Lizzy. Noticing their niece’s distress when they were in Hertfordshire for Christmas, they had intervened on her behalf. She had overheard her uncle commenting to his sister that unlike Jane at fifteen, Elizabeth still appeared very much a child. He had then gone on to genuinely praise Lizzy. ‘Despite her girlish appearance, she is by far the most intelligent of your daughters and the most resourceful at solving problems. Fanny, you know she has hardly been idle. She took on writing letters at Tom’s dictation at thirteen.’ Her Aunt Margaret had added, ‘Yes, Sister, your Lizzy is a good girl—she will come round to entering society; but first allow her to spend some time with us in London. Now that I have baby Susan, I could certainly use her help with Davy and Marianne. Her cousins adore her. Who knows, she might meet someone in town who will cause her to think better of the advantages of marriage. The company is very varied there.’
Her Uncle Edward had exerted impressive persuasion in gaining his older sister’s agreement to an extended visit to London for her second oldest daughter. Lizzy had often played the role of diplomat in her family, and as she had observed her uncle’s skill in negotiating on her behalf, she wondered whether she had inherited the trait from him. For years, she had used the humour learned from her father, not to demean, but to diffuse tensions among her siblings.
Her days since coming to London had been spent with seven year-old David and four year-old Marianne. She read to them and shared with them her considerable talent for creating voices for the different characters. Witches were her specialty, and she even did a credible dragon. Marianne would bury her face in Lizzy’s lap during the scary bits, but Davy refused to even flinch when his cousin let out a cackle or a roar. She made up exciting stories of knights and princesses that had both her cousins enthralled. As her father had with her, she was using Perrault to teach her cousins French. Both David and Marianne liked his Le Chat Botté (Puss in Boots) best, and Elizabeth was a master at capturing the tricky cat’s personality. Despite his less than ethical actions, Davy and Marianne thought Puss clever and funny; and all three agreed he certainly knew how to survive and prosper.
Edmund Fitzwilliam, Viscount Wolfbridge, eldest son and heir to the Earldom of Elderton, was in London for the winter. His parents were not, so in the interest of economy he was staying at Darcy House with his cousins Fitzwilliam and Anne Darcy. Darcy had always been plump in the pocket, but now since his marriage, the lucky devil had earnings from two estates at his disposal. If Lord Wolfbridge had offered for Anne, he could have avoided always being so close to dun territory. But who would have thought that Darcy would have proposed at twenty without even experiencing one genuine flirtation.
Lack of social ease was his cousin’s problem—and the mai
n reason he had acquiesced after only one Season of exposing himself to the marriage market. The daft discomfited young man had also persuaded himself he was doing his deceased mother’s bidding. Lady Anne and Lady Catherine had been speaking of an alliance between their children since they were infants. One thing was certain; in business matters, Darcy was not lacking. He had married Anne, joined two great estates and multiplied his wealth simply by saying ‘I will.’ Still there was no use crying over spilt milk; and besides his Aunt Catherine had made certain her brother’s sons knew she only wanted Fitzwilliam as her son-in-law. Titles did not impress the old dragon the way wealth did, and Pemberley was a significantly more impressive prize than her childhood home which is what the Viscount Wolfbridge would inherit. She had told both Edmund and his father, numerous times that an encumbered Elderton would not do as the inheritance for her anticipated grandson. Lord Wolfbridge looked over at his cousins and chuckled. The pair seemed to be in no haste to provide her with one.
The theatre was not one of his lordship’s favourite diversions. He’d much prefer a gaming-hell or a cock-pit—but those pleasures were suspended until he received his next quarterly allowance. In fact, the last time Edmund had asked Darcy for a loan, the prig had given him a lecture about the scandal that might beset the family if Lord Wolfbridge could not meet his obligations. What a shame that his riches did not seem to inspire him to indulge in the more sporting enjoyments available to gentlemen. But in his defence, he had a long history of generosity. Now when the Viscount thought better of asking Darcy for help, he just went around him and approached Anne. Her liberal pin money could always be counted on to aid her cousin. It had always been easy to bring her round his thumb—a bit of charm, a few words of flattery, a promise to help her find popularity among the ton, and she always came across with the blunt.