Having never gone beyond the city of London, it was a trip fraught with uneasiness for her. She had not slept a wink the night before and as she stood waiting her turn to climb onto the coach, she could feel her knees trembling. Seeing her thusly, Mrs. Gardiner drew a loosely woven aubergine shawl from about her own shoulders and gave it to Sally for the trip.
“Here, my dear,” she had said, “you must not catch your death.”
Sally was taken so unawares that she could hardly croak out proper thanks. But she had taken it from her with such reverence it was unlikely that Mrs. Gardiner thought it unappreciated. Indeed, Sally felt the sting of tears at her generosity. (Lydia had given her a chintz gown and a used pair of high-low boots, but that had been more to please Lydia’s sensibilities over the austerity of Sally’s coarse, fustian costume than as an act of generosity.) The shawl played no part in Sally’s elevated regard of Mrs. Gardiner as a lady, but it certainly solidified it. Surprisingly, the esteem she held for the Gardiners did not translate into the same for the rest of Lydia’s relations. As the Gardiners held all of Sally’s admiration, she had little in reserve for anyone else. She believed it quite impossible that the whole of Lydia’s family could be half as good as they.
Because Sally held the baby, she had ridden all the way from London inside the coach and upon the seat opposite the Major and Mrs. Kneebone. The aging wet-nurse, Malmsy, had ridden upon the boot with a footman. Hence, despite her apprehension of riding knee-to-knee with her employer halfway across England, Sally had felt fortunate to have been out of the rain. Major Kneebone was clearly a gentleman in having offered his seat inside to Malmsy. Lydia had said, “Pish-tosh—do not be a fool!” and he had wordlessly betaken himself inside the coach.
With every mile that drew her closer to Pemberley, ever greater was her disconcertion. Despite her brother’s high regard, she vowed to herself that she would despise them all. Indeed, even the estimable approach to Pemberley House as it came into view through the winding avenue of tulip trees could not beguile her admiration. By the time, however, they drew to a stop beneath the portico, though she still clung dearly to her disapproval, it had begun to waver.
Indeed, forthwith of their arrival her opinion wavered wildly from disgust to awe. That first was occasioned by encountering Mrs. Bennet. For the first to greet them was a lady of middle years and shrill voice entirely unknown to her. She greeted Lydia Bennet Wickham Kneebone with excessive determination. Sally stood dutifully by whilst both ladies cooed and kissed, professing undying affection. Major Kneebone was then introduced and the older woman declared herself to be excessively happy to make his acquaintance. Although Kneebone seemed pleased enough, Sally found the trilling voices unappealing. She loosened the blanket about the baby for proper inspection of her—one that did not then come about.
Sally meant to follow them through the huge entryway, but a servant caught her attention and directed her to wait. Malmsy was just then climbing from atop the carriage and bags were being unloaded from the boot. Without fanfare, they were herded towards a curved staircase. As she ascended it, she overlooked the huge black and white diamond pattern upon the floor, the statuary, and the gilded mirrors, and checked herself from gasping in awe. Overhead the entire ceiling was a brilliantly painted mural of winged angels, infants, naked women, and beasts. She had never imagined such magnificence, but feared that the scenes depicted might invade her dreams. She also wondered if the shrill woman who had met them outside was the beautiful mistress who had engendered her brother’s loyalty and devotion. She shook her head free of such a notion and endeavoured with great concentration to take the stairs without a misstep.
***
The nursery room that awaited them at Pemberley was as fine as anything Sally had ever imagined. She walked about eyeing the place in wonder and explaining it all to the silent newborn. Without instruction or much consideration, Malmsy took her seat in a nursing chair in the corner. Overtaken by sheer glee at the notion of such fine surroundings, Sally giggled and shrugged her shoulders at Malmsy, whose face cracked oddly, exposing two bottom teeth. It was the first smile she had witnessed from the woman, and that it took the form of a leering jack-o-lantern did nothing to ruin the moment of jubilation for Sally. Even in so small a position as a baby-nurse, the opulence of her surroundings persuaded her to pretend she was no less than a princess. She had thought the Gardiners’ fine home in Cheapside to have been the apex of all that was grand. She had no words for a castle such as Pemberley. She could not make herself put the baby in a crib, but walked about the room as if in a daze, by turns looking out of the window upon a lawn adorned with white marble statuary. Sally paced the room once again, altogether stunned at this fortunate turn of events.
Her reverie was forestalled by the intrusion of an unknown personage into the room. It was a lady—a most handsome lady who walked directly to her. Sally was so taken by the exquisite visage that she did not immediately notice that fast upon the heels of the fine lady was Lydia and the woman who had greeted them upon their arrival.
The lady spoke to her but looked at the baby’s face, saying, “Good day, miss. Pray, may I take her?”
Sally nodded dumbly and handed her off. The baby stirred and the lady began to shush her and sing. Sally knew she was not to look at the lady—from Lydia she had already learnt that would be unseemly of a mere nurse. Rather, she should cast her eyes upon the floor. But she felt as if her eyes were beguiled from their duty and took another peek. Suddenly, she felt self-conscious and tugged a bit at her cap.
Lydia called the lady “Lizzy.”
The lady called Lizzy said, “She is a sweet baby, Lydia. She favours you.”
Just who the baby did and did not favour seemed not a subject that was favourable and was awkwardly abandoned. Slowly, perceptively, Sally began to determine the relationship between each of these gentlefolk. They were mother and daughters. Raucous Lydia was sister to the divine lady called Lizzy? Heresy. She squinted her eyes, taking it all in.
Perhaps her eyes betrayed this knowingness, for when the lady called Lizzy returned infant Sue to her open arms, she peered curiously at her. Lydia, however, curled her nose. She was tempted to sneer back at her, but dared not. Quickly, furtively, Sally cast her eyes away, feeling as if she was in possession of some guilty knowledge. Before she had courage enough to look up again, both the lady and Lydia were gone. In that void, Sally was unsettled.
***
The single drawback to her entire undertaking was that she would be hard-pressed to steal away to talk to the stable-folk about her brother. It would be risky, but she was determined to do it. She could not come in all this stead and learn nothing. ’Twas imperative.
67
What the Gods Have in Store
When Elizabeth reflected upon this time, neither her mother’s disputatiousness nor her sister’s inanity were brought immediately to mind. All she would recall was her husband’s caressing touch and her children’s delighted smiles all wrapped in a glorious golden glow. Even the morning they rode out towards the far hills, the sun upon their shoulders was merely a kiss, promising the day to come to be as grand as the last. It was a time of such unparalleled glory, upon no count could it endure.
Indeed, the other shoe that Elizabeth anticipated did fall. However, it one was of an altogether different fashion than expected.
***
They awaited for the third day of Lydia’s visit ere they took out upon horseback. It was not an unusual occurrence; it was a habit they took full advantage of when there were disagreeable relations in visit. Enhancing this decision was an uncommonly fine morning. Indeed, they would have been happy for this occasion had they not been running in defence of their very sanity. Despite the vexation of Lydia’s trying presence, Elizabeth was in fine enough spirits. She had come to be easy with leaving her children for a few hours at a time. As those occasions were few, she cherished them. This day too he
ld an additional pleasure. It was her first outing upon her beloved mare, Boots, since foaling.
Darcy had honoured Elizabeth’s wish to present the colt as a gift to Fitzwilliam. It had been her intention since she learnt that Scimitar was the foal’s sire. However, she had the good sense to wait to mention it until her husband’s displeasure over the inadvertent breeding had waned. Much to her relief, his pique over the entire affair seemed to have disappeared altogether. Indeed, when at last she had nerve enough to broach the subject, he had behaved as if she had run mad to think he might have been of another mind upon the matter.
That told her that there was absolutely no remaining rancour towards Fitzwilliam—which was a happy thought indeed.
They made a little ceremony of it, gathering Georgiana and Fitzwilliam in the courtyard for the presentation. Elizabeth held Boots’s reins and Darcy stood at attention in a manner that suggested the entire idea were his. With great formality, he then bade Edward Hardin to lead the handsome colt out onto the cobbles. If any doubt had lingered over just which horse was his sire, all was forgot. So precise were his markings, he looked to be Scimitar’s replica.
Perhaps thinking of her own son’s likeness to his father, Elizabeth whispered in her mare’s ear, “Poor Boots. I know how you must feel. It looks as if you had no part in it at all.”
After the adulation of the colt’s likeness had faded, Darcy reached out and took the reins, and with great gravity, handed them to Fitzwilliam. The colonel stood momentarily stunned—both by the colt’s resemblance to Scimitar and the grandness of the gift. As unlikely as it was, tears seemed to threaten Fitzwilliam’s countenance. But he and Darcy both put up such a masquerade of nonchalance that neither Elizabeth nor Georgiana dared remark otherwise.
It would be months, however, before Fitzwilliam would take possession of the colt, for it was not yet fully weaned. In the meantime, Elizabeth was happy to give her mare a little freedom. The frisky colt kicked jubilantly when turned out into paddock, and, like sons everywhere, did not look back when Elizabeth rode off on Boots. Secretly, Elizabeth thought of them as motherly cohorts escaped from their offspring for a truant day of play. Indeed, the wild extravagance of racing beside her husband made her heart hurry (in a way that was surpassed only by other liberties enjoyed of him). Darcy, however, appeared quite of an opposing mood, for he had spoken but little the entire morn. She felt a small pang of conscience that her kin and their abuse to his sensibilities had altered his spirits.
***
His reticence once they had taken leave suggested he was more thoughtful than vexed. He remained distant, however, for nigh a mile’s travel. She thought it odd that he invited her along only to ignore her. After several attempts to beguile him into conversation met with little success, she decided that frankness was necessary.
“Shall we go all this way without you speaking two words together?” she asked.
She did not like the tone of her own voice. It sounded uncommonly like a complaint rather than the tease she meant it to be. He turned about and looked upon her. His eyes were piercingly direct. So piercing were they that she unconsciously shrank in her saddle. Still not uttering a word, he nodded for yonder grove and gave an encouraging heel to Blackjack. The big horse responded splendidly, increasing his leisurely walk into a gentle, rocking-horse canter. It was not necessary for her to nudge Boots, for the moment Blackjack cantered on, Boots followed in kind.
The sun was not yet high, but the shade still felt good upon her shoulders as she pulled Boots to a stop beneath a huge oak. Just as Darcy alit, a hare leapt from its burrow, startling them. Both horses reared, but Boots did not immediately settle down as Blackjack had. The mare continued to dance about, even kicking out with one leg severely enough to have called it a buck. Darcy relinquished his reins to catch Boots’s bridle. She continued to half-jump, but he put a soothing hand upon her nose and called to her in a soft, lowing voice. Elizabeth believed herself to have done an admirable job of not being thrown, but refused to rule out that possibility whilst the horse continued to skitter about. Boots settled, but Darcy clung to the bridle and put his free hand out to Elizabeth to encourage her to dismount. She let loose the reins and fairly leapt to him, and the momentum cast them both to the ground.
Lying atop her husband was not her least favourite position, but she feared that the odd elbow or knee might have done him damage, hence she immediately rolled from him and sat up.
Worriedly, she queried, “Pray, tell me what injury I have done you.”
“As always, I am here but to serve you,” he laughed.
Both looked at Boots, who was clearly confused by what had come to pass, for she had never reared before that day. As if to rid herself of all the commotion, she gave a shuddering shake of her head. She then hung it low as if aware she had somehow caused great injury.
“Oh,” said Elizabeth, “’twas not your fault, Boots…”
“No, it was not her fault. It was mine and mine alone,” Darcy announced. “I should have ridden her first myself before allowing you to take her out.”
Elizabeth felt herself quite capable of seeing to the reorienting her own horse. She opened her mouth to chide him for such an affront, but did not. The expression he bore when he drew himself to one knee bid her to be quite of another mind altogether. He reached out, cupping her chin in his hand.
Said he, “It is my duty to inquire of you, Lizzy. Have you injured your…have you been injured?”
She knew not what to admire most, his delicacy or his formality. She stifled a smile and shook her head almost as emphatically as had Boots. Darcy’s hand dropped from her face and he knelt before her. His expression of concern, however, remained. Suddenly, the merriment that had threatened to overspread her countenance evaporated.
Solemnly, he said, “We must talk.”
The gravity of this statement was not lost upon her. Her heart had not yet stopt racing from her small scare ere it was sent skittering again with anxiousness. She took his hands in hers (more of a comfort to herself rather than to him), to gird for what was to come.
“Bingley must retrench,” he announced abruptly.
“Retrench?” she repeated dumbly.
“Yes.”
“How could that be? Why? Jane has said nothing to me,” Elizabeth was stunned.
“I am certain Jane knows nothing of it. Bingley only just disclosed the state of his affairs to me.”
She sat in silence, her mind at the same time racing and suspended. It was an odd sensation—one she could not elude long enough to form further questions.
In the resultant quiet, he said, “There is more afoot in the country than any of us had reckoned, Lizzy. When your sister related observing many waggons carrying belongings upon the road, she may not have exaggerated.”
“If not, it would be a first,” Elizabeth interjected sourly.
He emitted a small harrumph of agreement before continuing.
“What we witnessed returning from Brighton was only the beginning of an exodus of working men who have had to uproot their families and move east for work.”
“Those men upon the beach…?”
“I can only imagine their mischief,” he admitted.
She shook her head, still unbelieving, “I am well aware high taxes and bad harvests have caused much hardship and unrest—but what has this to do with Bingley? Now that the war is over, Napoleon’s embargo has been lifted upon his merchandise. I was of the opinion all was well.”
“I fear it may well have come too late.”
“Jane knows nothing of it?”
“Bingley has gone to London even now to speak with his bankers. They have impeded the movement of his shipments,” he gave an imperceptible shake of his head at the thought. “It is a fruitless cause.”
“They will lose their home,” she said finally, then realising the magnitude of that fact, �
�Jane! Poor Jane!”
“That may well be their fate unless someone comes to their aid.”
“You have a plan?”
“I have a plan.”
She smiled broadly. Her husband was, and always had been, a rescuer. At that moment she cared little how it came about, she wanted only to bask in the pleasure of his chivalry. He, however, would not allow that.
He said, “It involves a man I despise.”
She looked at him quizzically, saying, “Had we not agreed to believe that George Wickham is dead?”
“Contrary to my previous comments,” he said, “Wickham is not the only despicable man in England.”
With that, he stood and put forth his hand, “Rise, please, and thither I shall take you.”
She stood brushing grass from her skirts, mumbling that she was uncertain if she wanted to see any man in league with Wickham. He legged her upon Boots once again in repetition of the same seductive manner that he always employed. His hand lingered upon the calf of her leg. She could not, however, give it her undivided attention. She could think of nothing but Jane and how distressed she would be on Bingley’s behalf.
“You, sir,” she cautioned, “must behave yourself, lest you tempt your wife from the business at hand.”
He did not respond, but leapt upon his own saddle with an oft-employed manoeuvre—one that she came to believe was employed only for her benefit. If it was, that made her happy twice—first because it displayed his considerable brawn to a propitious degree, and second because he wanted her to see it.
***
Darcy’s intended destination was a neighbouring estate. It was the home of a family that had long been a thorn in Darcy’s keenly felt sense of righteousness.
Thomas Howgrave was a gentleman only by the most generous definition of that term. He had fathered a son by his housekeeper—a deed not unheard of among the gentry. The insult to his station—as Darcy perceived it—was not having an illegitimate son. Rather, it was that he had ignored the indiscretion and the product of it until a particular situation necessitated him producing an heir. It was not the illegitimacy that affronted Darcy, but that he only chose to claim paternity when it fit his purposes—and Mrs. Howgrave was happy to stand arm in arm with her husband and the proof of his betrayal. Indeed, Darcy was known to have publicly snubbed young Henry Howgrave on more than one occasion. As to why Darcy had done the unthinkable in leading them to the Howgraves this day, and just what was their connection to Bingley left Elizabeth altogether perplexed. She had no doubt there would be method to this madness—but madness it seemed nonetheless.
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