Bingley could be accused of naivete in many ways, but he was not uninformed. He knew in just what straits his finances dangled. One of Bingley’s most admirable qualities was his honesty. Regrettably, he often assumed those he dealt with were of similar scruples. Without the appearance of doing so, Darcy had always tried to look out for Bingley’s welfare. It was a delicate matter to inquire of another’s business without appearing a meddler. Still, Darcy felt a moral compulsion to do so.
It had been thus from the beginning of their friendship.
Although they were alike in mind-set and morals, their politics and scruples also ran concurrently. Unquestionably, Bingley looked up to Darcy. Yet that esteem did not render Bingley an admirer of all of Darcy’s traits. Bingley was the only friend who dared criticise Darcy’s compleat lack of congeniality. Their ethics may have been alike, but their natures could not be more dissimilar. Whilst Bingley was open and optimistic, Darcy was dour and pragmatic. Darcy’s pragmatism was often tainted to an unhappy degree with pessimism—and Bingley liked more than anything to be unbothered.
Had Bingley asked, he would have attributed their opposing temperaments to a single difference in their situation. They both were only sons, but he was the youngest sibling and Darcy the oldest. Darcy was decidedly richer, but they were of the same class. Although Bingley was not entirely unwitting of other factors that separated them, he did not lend them proper due. There was far more separating them than sibling placement.
For Bingley was only one generation of landed gentry. His land was purchased, not inherited, making him the first of his family to be master of an estate. Bingley was not of the first, but of the first of his kind. Times were evolving in England, an ever-increasing number of untitled and lately rich were purchasing their own legacies. Darcy’s family was not ancient, but it had owned Pemberley and surrounding lands for hundreds of years. Those new to the land saw it only as a business. Most men born into Darcy’s landed class felt an obligation to make the best use of their assets to retain not only wealth, but also prosperity for future generations of their own and those whose livelihoods depended upon them. Continuing his line was a fundamental occupation to Darcy. He cherished Pemberley not only upon his behalf, but also upon those who came before him, and those who were yet to come.
Another dissimilarity in their natures was Darcy’s bent for brooding and Bingley’s total want of introspection. These traits were part and parcel of how their estates were managed. Bingley was a kind employer but he had not the sense of obligation to his roots as had his friend. Hence it was unlikely that he ever would. That void did leave Bingley adequate time to pursue entertainment. Once settled into a loving family life, he was free to compete his own horses at the race parks and back his favourite pugilists in the boxing ring.
As did Darcy, Bingley had an overseer in whom he had compleat trust. Regrettably, Bingley’s overseer of Kirkland was not a son of the land, but a man of the bottom line. Darcy had found fault with Bingley’s man’s advice on any number of matters, but was disinclined to criticise without invitation. The intelligence passed to Bingley by the supervisor of his investments was of no greater wisdom than that of his overseer. The recently passed Corn Laws were thought by many landowners to be a panacea for all their losses. Darcy, and even Bingley, understood their agricultural limitations. Derbyshire was largely wool producing and would benefit but little. Therefore, when Bingley’s man had enticed him to turn the hills of Kirkland for coal, Bingley saw it as a lucrative decision. Darcy knew coal to be an ugly, dangerous business. If not closely watched, abuses were rampant. And Bingley did not keep close watch over his land. Indeed, he liked to spend the lambing season in London.
So critical was such a venture to all in the townships surrounding Kirkland Hall, Darcy was moved to do the unthinkable—he offered Bingley unsolicited advice. With great deliberation, he recounted every drawback to the plan and general caution in all his business ventures. It would alter the entire character of the countryside. Darcy trod carefully, however. Bingley’s interests were diverse. The very Corn Laws that were seen as all and good to the landowner foretold stagnation for manufacturing. It was a dicey time for every class, and men who were unreliable had Bingley’s ear. It was Darcy’s opinion that was he to put his eggs in one basket it should be in his land. Goods could be pilfered, decayed, or seized. Land was eternal.
“Beware, Bingley,” Darcy succinctly concluded, but Bingley heeded not.
“Life goes on in the country, Darcy,” replied Bingley sagely, “Whether we are here to see it or not.”
Disinclined to waste his words upon closed ears, Darcy did not respond. Neither did he choose to go to London—unrest there was insidious. Newspapers were rife with tales of marauders. But Darcy could not persuade Bingley against town, either.
“I fear,” he said at last, “that you may find the dogs in London these days no less savage than those at that bear-baiting.”
At this, Bingley laughed heartily, certain his friend had exaggerated the dangers.
Embroidery of the facts, Bingley forgot, had never been Darcy’s bent.
49
The All-Knowing Mother
In having only to sit and watch for five years as her two younger sisters between them birthed seven children in that good time was not, however meagre, without its advantages for Elizabeth Darcy. Her mind had not been at all idle. In such close proximity to Jane’s children, often having them stay with her at Pemberley, she was privy to their every sneeze and wheeze. (By her own design, Elizabeth was much less in Lydia’s company, but there her learning was keen as to what methods to eschew.) This close scrutiny birthed in her no small conceit of what her own abilities would be when she became a mother. She was happy to admit (even if only to herself) of knowing every particular when it came to nurturing offspring. What with the little waggon she and Georgiana had gone out in upon the lands surrounding Pemberley nursing the ill and the downtrodden, when it came to afflictions she fancied herself an equal to Georgiana as a well-spring of curative knowledge. That was not, of course, an opinion she would dare share with her. (Stealing her thunder, she supposed, would not lead to a felicitous sisterly bond.) Still, when at last she had children of her own, she thought herself better prepared to weather the storms of their indisposition than any other mother in the county.
But then, it is said that when the flight is not high, the fall is not heavy.
***
By the first remembrance of their day of birth, Janie Darcy was sporting a summer cold. Geoff’s constitution fared better, but his favourite coral teether was being worked on with such regularity it kept the front of his gown perpetually damp with drool. These small tribulations caused their mother little concern, although their father’s fastidiousness did keep him somewhat nervous of taking hold of either of them. His abhorrence had commenced upon holding little Janie when she issued a sneeze. She had given such a sweet little shiver in its aftermath that he had been amused and looked lovingly upon his darling daughter.
“Lizzy,” he said. “Did you hear that? Our brave Janie has just sneezed!”
He lifted the baby triumphantly before him and only then realized that with her sneeze she had expelled a string of mucus extending halfway down his waistcoat.
“Oh dear God in heaven!” said the fastidious Mr. Darcy upon this realisation. “What the devil is that?”
Elizabeth rushed forth to rescue little Janie, who had suddenly become to her father an object of danger, for she was crinkling her nose as if ready to explode once more. However, as her nasal passages had been cleared the first time, this explosion was less lethal. In that annoyingly knowing way that only seasoned mothers could enlist, Elizabeth took her from her father’s arms and gave her to Margaret, then rather coyly took his pocket-square and brushed away the offending slime. He stood still as a statue, arms extended and a look of utter disgust upon his countenance whilst she attempted to
remove all evidence of the impudent discharge.
“I have never witnessed anything so ghastly in my life!” he announced.
“Stay close, dear husband,” she laughed. “One may yet upend their breakfast—or worse.”
“I fear I will not be disposed to witness that,” he sniffed. “I must hasten to have this waistcoat burnt.”
She continued to work on his waistcoat long after any residue remained, finding amusement in how brief a time it took to render his expression from indignantly appalled to unabashedly amatory with only a saucy gaze from her upturned eyes.
“I pray we will embark soon for Brighton? I fear our children are much in need of a sea remedy,” said she.
Elizabeth continued to blot at his waistcoat as she spoke. Darcy found her newly acquired motherly self-possession exemplary (and not a little inviting). He retrieved his pocket-square and then looked upon it before changing his mind, holding it by two fingers an arm’s-length away for her to take.
“We have only to fasten the trunks on the coach,” said he, dropping the offending cloth into her outstretched hand.
She took it and almost stuffed in her bodice for future use before thinking better of it and tossing it aside. (He looked relieved that she had.) He took his leave and Elizabeth turned her attention back to her children. As she did, she gave a small, self-satisfied waggle of her shoulders, but of this she was compleatly unaware.
Inasmuch as Miss Margaret Heff was in great awe of the Master of Pemberley, she did not observe either the waggle or the Darcys’ exchange. She had done the considerable feat of being handed off Janie whilst keeping her eyes compleatly averted. She was a simple girl, come to the grand house with much the same veneration as if she entered a cathedral. Her introduction to the gentry had been the single winter she helped in the house of Squire Thorne. He had been a plump, rumpled man with thin legs, straw hair, and no good word to say to anyone. She did not much like him, but she did not fear him. Although he had yet to speak directly to her, she feared Mr. Darcy. Some called him handsome. She did not observe him to be so. Granted, he was fit and his features were agreeable, but she saw upon that proud countenance an expression of most unambiguous dourness that affrighted her quite beyond all good reason.
Before she had set foot in what she knew must be the finest house in England, her sister Hannah had assured her that Mr. Darcy was not quite as forbidding as he appeared. But that was little comfort in that he could have been half as forbidding as he appeared and still been a very forbidding man. Then again, Mr. Darcy’s disagreeability was compleatly redressed by Mrs. Darcy’s kindness. That good lady was quite easy. Indeed, she was easy and kind and clearly devoted to her children. Moreover, Mr. Darcy seldom came into the nursery. Not unlike the houses of other gentlemen, when his children were to be seen, they were brought to him. In other houses, however, custom had it that children were brought not only to the father, but to both parents, and then but once a day. In Pemberley, Mistress was in and out of the nursery all the day long. This, of course, was in addition to the numerous times each day they were brought to see their father. All this bundling about of babies ran Margaret quite ragged, but she dared not quarrel with the arrangement.
The other peculiarity about this procedure was that once the children were brought to their parents in the salon they favoured for such meetings, Margaret was dismissed. Hence, Mr. Darcy’s conduct towards those children behind closed doors was unbeknownst to her. Moreover, Margaret knew enough not to be inclined to inquire. Regardless, it was altogether curious.
That particular day, Margaret had been taken quite unawares when the apparition of Mr. Darcy had invaded the nursery. If she had not known better than to think such a thing, Margaret might have believed that Mr. Darcy’s tarriance there was solely to visit his ailing children (for they had been kept much to the nursery). But they were not all that sick and that would have been an exhibition of fatherly concern that some might believe untoward. Mr. Darcy was most attentive to seeing decorum upheld. Hence, she dismissed that notion out of hand. As forbidding a man as Mr. Darcy would not be subject to the sentimentality of an expression of paternal affection. The fathers of her acquaintance may have been fond of their children, but they knew enough not to display it.
To her credit, Margaret Heff was an unerringly good judge of what was and was not an illness, Mrs. Darcy her acknowledger and supporter. However, nurse’s unerring disadvantage, at least insofar as her current employer was concerned, was that this repository of information brought with it elucidative intelligence of an inflammatory nature. Indeed, when a disorder had been determined, nurse’s single evil increasingly exposed itself as a penchant for prattling on about the accompanying terrors with relentless enthusiasm. This was, of course, much to Mrs. Darcy’s accelerating chagrin.
“Fine notion, mistress,” said Margaret, once Mr. Darcy’s bootsteps had faded off down the hall. “Brighton is a fine place, not like I hear Bristol. That town’s waters are rotten with the leavings of the cess-pit. Fancy that! All those fine folks, swimming in…” here Margaret stopt and reconsidered her remark, “swimming in with Lor’ knows what!”
She laughed a small laugh at the folly of gentlefolk. She and Mrs. Darcy had quickly fallen into such an amiable camaraderie that she often had to remind herself to whom she spoke. For her part, Mrs. Darcy encouraged this intimacy, believing a kinship with her children’s nanny an advantage to them all. Hence, Mrs. Darcy endured this small accident of language and any others in all good humour.
Margaret returned Janie to Mrs. Darcy and took little Geoff into her arms, then sat down to wipe his chin clean with the hem of her initially spotless apron, saying, “I do dread the babes’ teeth working through. It is a cruel time for them. It’s a sad truth that more wee ones die from a fever at this time more than any other—that or the smallpox. It can sneak up on them when they are in such a state.”
Mrs. Darcy abandoned the wise, all-knowing nod she had been affecting and an expression overspread her countenance of alarm and shock. This alteration upon her employer’s countenance was heeded late on, and Margaret silenced herself, allowing the recently lost colour to return to Mrs. Darcy’s cheeks. Without Jane at hand to reassure her, Elizabeth was fast in the grips of near panic.
Whether Elizabeth was dragooned into action in the face of such danger or her mind had already been settled in that favour is of little concern. As it was, the sea air was beneficial and Mrs. Darcy was happy to set up house there until each and every tooth in her children’s heads worked its way free. Although she knew she must report the intelligence of their children’s perils to her husband, she vowed to do so with the utmost discretion. It would not be helpful to alarm him unduly. It would just be additional excuse to escape London without comment from the all and sundry. But as she gained the corridor and started for his study to tell the tale, she compleatly forgot herself and her promise.
“Darcy, dearest!” Elizabeth called, then louder, “Darcy! We must make haste for Brighton!”
50
The Indecisive Confinement of Mrs. Fitzwilliam
Fitzwilliam and Georgiana had been home to Derbyshire County but briefly in their year-long tour of England’s spas. Their travels took them to the chilly coast of Kent and Margate, then they skirted Ramsgate altogether and strove on to the smaller Sussex towns of Littlehampton and Worthing. Whilst they journeyed, Fitzwilliam resolutely dragged his game leg from site to site, insisting it was no bother whatsoever. For Georgiana’s part, she assured him that he looked quite dashing driving a gig rather than on horseback—and as the double-vision that had long troubled him had abated enough for him to at last toss aside his eye-patch—she could compliment him on that as well.
Still, it was evident he yearned to be able-bodied enough to return to the saddle and enjoy the long rides that he and Darcy were at one time accustomed to taking. He missed them less for the reassuring sensation of a brisk mount
beneath him and the scent of saddle leather as for the company of his good friend. Hence, when they finally made their way to Brighton, he was quite unhappy to find that they had arrived before Darcy and Elizabeth. When at last he espied their arrival, he betook himself directly to their apartments—only to find the new parents still all in an uproar. Little progress had been made in situating their retinue. Fitzwilliam had to laugh at the throng of beings their first trip from home required. For the number of trunks still sitting on the landing told the tale of just how many were in their entourage of babies, nurses, and maids. His own quite simple situation in Georgiana’s able hands meant Fitzwilliam was quite at his leisure to ridicule Darcy’s.
“I say, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, endeavouring to disguise a grin. “You are laden with more provisions than required by both Wellington and Blucher together!”
Darcy stood amidst the mound of baggage that had barely dwindled from the day before. He looked about him as maids and footmen heaved and pulled them about.
“Such disorder looks to be indefensible, indeed. But you cannot imagine what folderol two so small can demand.”
As he spoke those words, it occurred to Darcy that Fitzwilliam’s understanding of such matters would soon be tried. He had finally accepted that his sister was no longer a deflowered virgin but a mother-to-be who would soon bring forth a living, breathing infant. Indeed, once his sister’s marriage had taken place, the sense of betrayal Darcy had felt towards Fitzwilliam had all but vanished. To see his sister happy at last had done wonders to return him to good humour.
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