“I fear,” he said tightly, “your sojourn in the West Indies has made you forget yourself. Society in England is unused to such frankness.”
“Of course, can you ever forgive such rudeness?” Beecher said. “This sadness has been very trying. I scarcely know what nonsense finds its way out of my mouth. I meant no disrespect.”
His words were humble, but his expression remained somewhat haughty. Still, Fitzwilliam was not the sort to hold mere words against another gentleman. He had witnessed far worse injury inflicted by his fellow man. He was happy to believe Beecher a victim of something recognisable to him rather than a compleat boor—a condition for which he had no explanation. Yet Fitzwilliam had limits upon what ill traits he would accept from another. Beecher was obviously a dandy, but Fitzwilliam had felt pity for Anne all her life and had hoped that his poor cousin at least had been honourably settled for a small portion of her life. Darcy, he knew, held no such hope, privately pronouncing Beecher a fortune-hunter.
Believing himself to have won Fitzwilliam’s sympathy, Beecher took him by the arm and steered him from the others, immediately launching upon a story to test that kindness. It involved Fitzwilliam’s least favourite subject, but one the unsuspecting Beecher thought a soldier of the Crown would enjoy.
“Are you, Colonel, one of those soldiers who considered Napoleon’s disturbing the peace of the Continent as a personal kindness?” he laughed. “Whatever shall you do with yourself now that Wellington has given us peace?”
Fitzwilliam was not unused to such abuse, and he answered mildly, “Once one has witnessed war, there is nothing quite so dear as peace.”
Darcy then approached Fitzwilliam, touching him upon the elbow, “Forgive my interruption, Fitzwilliam. You are needed.”
He nodded his head in the direction of Georgiana, who was sitting upon a settee at the far end of the room. Elizabeth was fanning her. She did not look entirely well and Fitzwilliam nodded curtly to Beecher and hurried to her. Beecher smiled at his hastening and sauntered up to Darcy.
“The colonel is a very dutiful husband,” Beecher sighed. “What is it they say of courtship and marriage, Darcy?”
Darcy stood mute.
Smiling amiably, he answered his own question, “Courtship to marriage—a very witty prologue to a very dull play.”
That was not a theory to which Darcy subscribed. Despite his disinclination to converse with such a man, he could not help but retort, “There are occasions when I have known that to be true. Perhaps it is thus when the match is insincere.”
If Beecher believed that observation was directed towards him, he did not display umbrage. He did, however, defend his marriage, not scrupling to employ his dead wife’s name.
“I am happy to share with you that your cousin Anne often told me that she had loved me from first we met.”
“In cases such as these, I must take leave to observe that there is a road from the eye to the heart that often does not traverse the intellect.”
Darcy did not see what sort of response his remark had upon Beecher’s countenance, for he immediately betook himself in service of his sister. Elizabeth had warned him that Georgiana felt unwell and was much in want of Fitzwilliam escorting her upstairs. That sounded remarkably like an imminent birth to him. He wished that Georgiana had listened to Elizabeth and not taken the journey to Kent. Saying “I told you so” would by no means be helpful and he quashed the inclination to employ it. But he could not keep from worrying. Indeed, he felt himself become increasingly apprehensive as he awaited Elizabeth to return to his side with news of Georgiana’s condition. He stood apart from the other guests, nervously pulling at his cuffs, hoping against hope that Beecher would not again seek him out. Whilst one eye he kept upon his guard for that gentleman, the other he kept trained upon the stairs. After some time, Elizabeth appeared. She had stopt midway down the staircase and beckoned to him. He was to her side in an instant.
Employing no artificial formality, she said, “Her time is imminent.”
The expression she bore suggested just how imminent her time was. That concern was immediately shared by Darcy.
“Has the surgeon been called?”
She nodded that he had, but said, “I fear the baby will arrive ere does he.”
She knew enough of his discomfort of the subject not to employ the word “pain” in her description of Georgiana’s condition. Still, the furrow between his eyebrows deepened and she patted his arm in a motherly fashion.
“Dare not,” said he, “conduct yourself as if I were a child.”
He immediately regretted that objection, but his regret was tardy by half. Her countenance registered a hurt of some magnitude. Still, she remained true to the issue at hand.
“We must perforce be calm,” she said. “We have no reason not to expect all will be well.”
After being petted like an infant, his least favourite thing was being advised to be calm. Hence, his initial pique was reinstated.
“Of course,” he said curtly.
The mood of this wait was not to improve, for once Lady Catherine heard her niece had been taken to the straw, she abandoned her watch over her daughter’s corpse to sit with Darcy and Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth escaped by reason of frequenting Georgiana’s bedside.
Upon the untimely demise of Lady Anne, Dr. Brumfitt had hastily removed himself from Rosings Park. To his horror, Lady Catherine had issued no reproach. Had she rebuked him, had she screamed epitaphs at him (yea, had she threatened to draw and quarter him and throw him to the pigs), he would have been frightened, but not nearly as alarmed as was he in her silence. When he was recalled to Rosings, it was only with the utmost fortitude that he made himself board Lady Catherine’s carriage. He knew not what lay before him and he was far too wretched to inquire of the driver for the particulars. When he arrived, Lady Catherine did not receive him, but he was relieved to learn that his services were welcomed once again. Only upon learning that did he once again draw an easy breath.
Regrettably, that news was met by an equal relaxation of his sphincter (that had been in a puckered state since Lady Anne’s passing), thereby causing him to spend much of Georgiana’s labour perched upon a chamber-pot in the servants’ quarters. Chasing up and down the staircase did not leave him much time to monitor Georgiana’s progress. Of this turn of events her husband and her brother remained unaware. In fortune, Elizabeth had assisted in Jane’s deliveries, therefore she had little trouble performing those duties to which the surgeon was unable to attend. Georgiana was as stout-hearted as any soldier’s wife, bearing down with determination. If she was afraid, that remained unapparent. Indeed, she had enough wits about her to direct Elizabeth’s hands to help her daughter into the world. When she handed the baby to her mother, between them was exchanged an acceptance of a bond eclipsing any that had gone before.
Once she had washed the baby, swaddled her, and placed her in her mother’s arms, Elizabeth betook herself to announce the birth (passing Brumfitt upon the stairs). Both relieved and ecstatic, Fitzwilliam rushed to Georgiana’s side to adore his wife and his newborn, leaving Darcy and Elizabeth with the awkward task of sitting with Lady Catherine and keeping her company.
The line of viewers had dwindled with the light, and Lady Catherine gave the orders to have her daughter’s coffin sealed. As she had gone to await another child to be brought into the world forthwith of those instructions, Mrs. Jenkinson took that private opportunity to creep next to the coffin and place therein the tattered copy of The Mysteries of Udolpho and the cross and chain Anne had received at her confirmation. It lay to her to weep and to keep watch as the coffin was nailed shut.
It was altogether fitting that when Fitzwilliam returned from being introduced to his daughter he announced that it had been their agreement that her name should be Anne.
71
The Proposition
As the Darcys and La
dy Catherine sat about awaiting their turn to see the newborn, no one had much to say. Those unspoken thoughts of Anne’s very different parturition imbued the air around them with a sickly, sticky uneasiness. Darcy had been out of sorts since arriving at Rosings. He had a private audience with his aunt soon after their arrival that did nothing to alleviate his mood. Having been privy to what transpired when last Darcy hied to Rosings with a mind to settling a score, Elizabeth knew how torn he must be over this sad turn of events. He had left to his aunt’s discretion the timbre of their continued relationship. She had refused the baptismal and Elizabeth assumed their connection irreconcilable—at least until their meeting at Brighton. Although their public reconciliation was in place, their private connection remained strained. When death visits, betimes those rifts are repaired. She hoped so, for Darcy’s sake, not hers. Family meant a great deal to him.
When Fitzwilliam invited Darcy to come meet his niece, he asked Lady Catherine to join him. She, however, demurred—a choice that astounded Elizabeth. Why her ladyship would prefer her company to any other was a mystery. Still, Lady Catherine had been cordial to her. At least she was cordial in Darcy’s presence. In his absence, such as then, she largely ignored her. This tacit agreement between themselves very much suited Elizabeth. She had offered her sincere condolences upon their arrival and was happy not to be called on to engage in those discourses particular to funerals.
Indeed, all the endless prattle alluding to Anne’s handsome face, svelte figure, keen intellect, and unrivalled kindness moved Elizabeth to remark to Darcy, “Nothing improves one’s reputation like dying.”
He then smiled at her wry observation. Having actually spent time in Anne’s company, even platitudes seemed beyond reach. Hence, she sat at that moment admiring silence more than any other occupation. So quiet was it, Elizabeth nearly leapt from her seat when Yewdell entered the room and announced Dr. Brumfitt awaited. To Elizabeth, even the good doctor was a most welcome reprieve from their silence.
Curtly, Lady Catherine bid him enter.
He sidled in, standing but one jump from the door. He bowed towards Elizabeth with a quick little dip of his head whilst eying Lady Catherine with wide-eyed apprehension. She busied herself adjusting her skirt, giving him the courage to address Elizabeth. He hemmed and hawed a bit, giving Lady Catherine to snort derisively.
“Get to it, Bumfitt!”
He immediately quit stammering and put forth a piece of paper. Upon it were several notations and a figure. It was his bill. Elizabeth reached out her hand and he inched his way forward until he was near enough for her to snatch it from his fingers. It was a tidy sum he charged for standing by Georgiana’s side with his watch in his hand to time her contractions (which came with no less frequency than that of his bowels), and he submitted a bill for full services rendered. Dr. Brumfitt was clearly of a mind that Georgiana’s delivery recompensed that of Anne’s too, for even he had not the gall to ask Lady Catherine for payment for a dead patient. He was greedy, but not stupid.
“God heals and the surgeon hath the thanks, eh, Bumfitt?” Lady Catherine harrumphed.
Elizabeth discreetly folded the bill and nodded to Brumfitt, whispering she would see that it was attended to. He acknowledged that promise and made for the door, Yewdell delicately closing it behind him.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
Lady Catherine shook her head and resituated herself in her chair. Yewdell then withdrew from the room. In the silence that followed, Elizabeth felt compelled to make some remark.
All she could think of to offer was, “However timorous Dr. Brumfitt’s demeanour, I believe his devotion to his pocketbook commendable.”
Lady Catherine neither smiled nor glowered, but simply nodded her head. Elizabeth folded, then unfolded her hands, smoothed her skirt over her knees, and folded them once more. She had just decided to excuse herself and make her way to Georgiana’s side when Lady Catherine spoke.
“Have you seen my granddaughter?”
“No, your ladyship, I have not had that honour.”
Rather than pulling the bell cord for a servant to bring the infant to her, she rose, issuing the command, “Come.”
Elizabeth could do nothing but follow her up the stairs.
They were but halfway up when she realised that Lord Beecher had joined them. She turned about with a start at this notice and he smiled genially. She nodded in return, but an uncomfortable feeling gripped her spine, causing her to shudder involuntarily. By the time they gained the upper reaches of the house, the stairs had narrowed. The passageway they entered was lit by a series of torches, and she felt as if they had entered the farthest keep in a castle. When at last they gained the door of the nursery, she entered a perfectly well-tended room. It was composed of ancient furnishings, but there were several nurses on hand to see to Lady Catherine’s granddaughter.
As would most mothers, Elizabeth went directly to the baby’s side to admire her (and compare her to her own children).
“What a beautiful baby,” she gushed, employing not a single bit of exaggeration.
She truly was a pretty newborn, having not the misshapen head expected of such an arduous trip down the birth canal. Elizabeth was prepared to offer her admiration and depart, but Lady Catherine astonished her by asking her if she would like to hold the baby. Her first impulse was to beg off, but she feared that the infant would not often feel the comfort of caring arms. The nurses looked to be more efficient than loving.
Tenderly, she took the motherless baby into her arms, cooing softly. The tiny thing snuffled a bit but did not stir from her sleep. As she had done with her own, Elizabeth drew the backs of her fingers gently across the baby’s brow. Before returning her to her cradle, she kissed her upon the forehead. A nurse came forward, but Lady Catherine shooed her away. Once again Elizabeth was very aware of Beecher’s presence. His breath came in short pants. As the stairs had not winded her, she wondered what design may have taken his breath. She was certain they did not bring her all this way without one.
When at last Lady Catherine spoke, the beginnings of her scheme began falling apparent.
“It is as if it were that day a generation past, dear Elizabeth.”
Dear Elizabeth—that was undeniable evidence. But she would not allow her countenance to register that detection.
Mildly, Elizabeth inquired, “Whatever do you mean?”
“Why, it was but a short time ago that I stood with Darcy’s mother, just as we are here.”
Her voice had taken on an odd softness. Elizabeth was convinced the woman was actually recollecting.
“Truly?”
“Yes, indeed,” she continued, “we stood over Lady Anne’s cradle just as you and I are here. Poor dead Anne!”
Elizabeth was well aware that if Lady Catherine was prepared to draw on pity for her means, she would not stop until she had employed every shot in her locker. Yet she remained aloof, refusing to give Lady Catherine’s design any assistance. Lady Catherine’s gaze rested so heavily upon her, Elizabeth could actually feel it, but she did not allow her own gaze to leave the baby.
“From their cradles, they were meant for each other!” Lady Catherine boomed, then remembered herself and repeated softly, “From their cradles, they had been meant for each other. But that was not to be.”
Giving up all semblance of apathy, Elizabeth then looked directly at her.
“No, that was not to be,” she said evenly.
“No,” Lady Catherine repeated.
That capitulation was a gift long in coming. Elizabeth, however, sensed it was not a feeling that would last.
Beecher stole her attention by interjecting, “That is history, Elizabeth. To-day is another day.”
Indeed, that was a fact that Elizabeth could not argue, but in stating the obvious, Beecher told Elizabeth that this day was one that she just might rue.
“Yes, to-day is another day,” agreed Lady Catherine’s lips, but her eyes ploughed silent daggers at Beecher’s chest. Thereupon, she turned to Elizabeth and continued, “We have before us another opportunity to unite our families as Darcy’s mother wished unto her dying days.”
Elizabeth was inclined to retort to such a scheme meanly, but she did not. She weighed her response carefully. She did not want to despise any future bride for her son out of hand, but it was a compleat impossibility that she would force her darling son into a marriage conceived by anyone or anything other than his own wishes. She harboured no doubt whatsoever that she would never agree to such an arrangement. At that moment, however, she could not be certain of Darcy’s mind. If Lady Catherine employed his mother’s name and his dead cousin’s memory, might he be prevailed upon to acquiesce to such a scheme? It had long been Elizabeth’s fear that in marrying her, he might have believed that he had betrayed his mother’s wishes. She had been so certain of Lady Catherine’s hatred, little thought was given that she might still want to further their connection. Elizabeth fretted for the conversation Darcy had with his aunt upon their arrival. Perhaps an agreement of the tacit kind was already in place. Why else would Lady Catherine have had the audacity to approach her?
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